


Two Forms, One Soul

by Mithen



Category: DCU Animated
Genre: Character Turned Into Vampire, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-07
Updated: 2009-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 22:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dick Grayson asks Clark Kent for help, Clark finds his teammate and friend Bruce Wayne oddly changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [异体同心](https://archiveofourown.org/works/864041) by [Lynx219](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynx219/pseuds/Lynx219)



Clark Kent adjusted his bow tie and polished his glasses one more time, checking his reflection carefully.  Lois Lane had agreed to go on a date with him--if he were to be fully honest with himself he would probably have to admit it was because she wanted to get a good look at the inside of Wayne Manor and its billionaire owner.  Still, it was a chance.  It was always possible he could have a breakthrough tonight, could convince Lois to finally see him as something other than her dorky co-worker.

It was even possible she might let him kiss her goodnight.

Clark imagined her stopping at her hotel door turning her face upward to him, waiting, expectant.  He imagined how he would lean forward and--

He broke off that train of thought ruthlessly.  Not only was it most likely totally futile, but he was losing sight of the main reason he was going to this fundraiser.

As he re-tied his bow tie, he remembered Dick Grayson's worried voice on the phone.  "I need you to check on Bruce.  He's been...not himself.  Told me I should be focusing on Bludhaven and...not to come around Wayne Manor anymore."  Dick's hurt had been palpable.

"He's been avoiding League actions as well," Clark had noted.  "None of us have seen him for a month, at least.  But Dick," he had added reasonably, "He goes through jags like this, right?  The man's a brooder, just take it in stride."

"I've been trying to," Dick said.  "But I just got a call from Alfred. 

"Clark, he's dismissed Alfred."

Clark frowned at his reflection in the mirror.  Dismissing Alfred was a grave portent indeed.  Even in his worst funks, Bruce had never sent the butler away.  Now the man was all alone in that huge Manor and dank cave and he didn't seem to be coming out.

Clark hadn't been invited to this Red Cross fundraiser, but he figured this might be the last chance he had to see Bruce publicly.  The man hadn't been responding to phone calls or League pages.  So crashing the party seemed to be the safest way to quickly check on him.

Not to mention when he had mentioned the plan to Lois she had been thrilled at his chutzpah and insisted on coming along.  That was definitely a fringe benefit.

Clark sighed.  The bow tie was a total loss.  For some reason, with all his powers, he could never tie a simple bow tie.  It must be some kind of mental block.

Maybe Lois would tie it for him?

Cheerfully he started to go next door, visions of Lois's capable fingers brushing his neck dancing in his head.

**: : :**

****There was a harp playing somewhere, long liquid glissandos of music, as Lois and Clark entered the ballroom of Wayne Manor.  The chandelier was blazing, casting wavering dim lights in the perfectly-polished marble floor.  Lois's arm was warm in his;  he could feel her head swiveling as she took in all the sights.  But his eyes were drawn irresistibly to a group of people on the far side of the ballroom.

They were gathered around someone, hanging on his every word, and as Clark drew closer he realized with a start that it was Bruce Wayne, talking about some fine point of water polo. 

A strange prickle ran up Clark's spine as he watched Bruce talking, and his footsteps slowed on the marble floor, dragging to a stop.  He seemed to be staring, but he couldn't look away somehow.

Bruce was very pale, as if he hadn't left the house for a month or two.  His features seemed...sharper, even more aristocratic than before.  And his eyes had a feverish glitter to them that seemed to transfix Clark, a dark gleam impossible to look away from.  He was holding forth about some recent match, his voice low and yet authoritative, and everyone was hanging on his every word as if they couldn't get enough of his voice.  Clark couldn't hear his voice perfectly clearly over the buzz of the party, but he wanted to--it was richer and more compelling than he had remembered Bruce's voice, somehow.  He wanted to hear it more clearly.  He took another step forward, Lois's arm still locked in his.

As he did, Bruce's head suddenly snapped up and he looked straight and unerringly at Clark.

Clark froze as Bruce stared at him, his eyes bright and confrontational.  Bruce brushed aside the people he had been talking to and stalked over to Clark.  Had his movements always had such feral grace, such perfect self-composure?  Bruce had always been dangerous, had always been beautiful, of course he had.  But somehow at this moment his beauty and menace hit Clark like a blow, like a fresh revelation.  Part of his mind was stammering irrational panic:  _danger danger get away flee danger._   He ignored it and held his ground.

"You were not invited," Bruce said, his voice low and menacing, each syllable carefully enunciated. 

Clark struggled to find words, torn between the unreasonable impulse to turn and flee and another, different impulse that he couldn't quite define but seemed to involve listening more closely to Bruce's beautiful voice.  Leaning in.  Leaning closer.  He shook his head slightly, focusing.  "Dick called and asked me to check on you.  He's worried about you."

"He's a good boy."  Bruce seemed distracted by something, his voice distant.  His eyes roamed over Clark as if they were assessing him for possible threats.  Clark felt oddly uncomfortable, vulnerable.

"Won't you talk to him?"

"No."  Bruce's head snapped back up and he met Clark's eyes squarely again.  "I shouldn't be talking to you."  He stepped closer, just one step.  Lois made a small sound that seemed to be of fear, and Clark suddenly remembered she was there at all.  "Clark," Bruce whispered.  "Go home.  You can't help me.  No one can help me.  And I..."  His eyes were as deep as a sky, a sky Clark could fall into, a sky with no stars, no light at all.  "...I can hurt you more than you can imagine."

Then he was gone, turning his back and walking away, returning to his conversation.  The crowd parted and fell into place around him like iron filings drawn to a lodestone.  Clark watched him go, unable to look away, wishing he would turn again just once, let Clark glimpse those dark eyes one more time.  "Bruce," he whispered, and far across the ballroom Bruce paused just an instant, his back stiff and wary.  Then he kept going, walking away.

Walking away.

Someone was pulling on his arm and calling his name.  He looked down at the woman there, gazing up at him from wide, alarmed eyes.  "Lois," he said, seeming to call her name up from some recess of memory.

"Let's go back to our hotel," she said, her face pale.  "I've seen enough."

She dragged Clark away.

**: : :**

At the door of her hotel room Lois paused, looking up at him.  She seemed to be waiting for something, her face turned up expectantly.  Clark blinked down at her, and slowly her expression shifted from inviting to annoyed.  "Never mind," she muttered.  The door swung shut behind her.

Clark continued to blink at it for a long time, his thoughts strangely slow.  He was going over that conversation with Bruce again.  What could he have said to make Bruce listen?

What could he have said to make him stay? 

Make him keep talking to him, keep looking at him? 

It was important that he talk to Bruce, he told himself as he let himself into his own room, prepared for bed.  People were worried about him.  Dick and Alfred were worried about him.  The entire JLA needed him back.

He had to find some way to talk to Bruce again.

He had to.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark tries to distract himself from his sudden attraction to Bruce Wayne.

Clark woke up slowly, feeling fragments of dreams like cobwebs fray and fade around him. He was vaguely, restlessly aroused, so they must have been dreams of Lois, he supposed. He remembered the pressure of her arm in his last night as Bruce had stalked toward them, predatory and enraged.

Bruce.

He came more fully awake, shaking off the last shreds of dreams. He owed it to Dick and Alfred, to the whole superhero community, to speak to Batman again, get to the bottom of whatever the trouble was. He changed into his costume, smoothing the shining material, and slipped into the morning sky, heading for the Manor.

The cave was empty. There were no sounds of movement in it or in the mansion above, no rustle beyond the ceaseless whisper of the bats overhead, no human heartbeats at all. The silence was deep and somehow eerier than usual. Clark moved through the cave, the hair on the back of his neck prickling despite himself. A strange, irrational urge to flee was battering at his hind-brain; he tamped it down severely. There was nothing here to fear, nothing at all--

"You shouldn't be here," said a voice as dark as midnight behind him, and Clark managed to keep from yelping with only the greatest of efforts. He turned--slowly, deliberately, there was no need to whirl, no reason for his heart to be pounding--to face Batman, his cape wrapped around his body, his eyes concealed under the flat white lenses.

"You can't hide from me forever."

Batman cocked his head with an odd, almost preternatural fluidity. "I could if I wanted," he said.

"Why did you dismiss Alfred?" Clark attempted to force a jovial note into his voice. "You know perfectly well you can't possibly get by without him. You can't do laundry, you can't cook, you'll probably starve to death."

Bruce seemed to be staring at him, though with the lenses obscuring his eyes it was hard to tell. "I'm..." he swallowed. "I am hungry," he said in a near-whisper.

Clark wished he could see Bruce's eyes again, a wish that seemed to coil tightly in his chest. He focused on Bruce's mouth instead: the gentle curve of the lower lip, the severe bow of the upper. The sheen of the skin, dark against the pallor of his face. He saw a faint flash of teeth as Bruce's lips moved, and he shuddered slightly, unable to look away. "Clark." Bruce's voice reached him as if through a long tunnel. "Clark. Stop it." Bruce turned his back on Clark abruptly and Clark blinked, feeling as if some cord between them had been snapped.

"You should eat something," Clark said inanely.

There was a hoarse sound that could have been laughter from the dark figure. "Don't tempt me."

Clark took a step forward, then another. The part of him that wanted to flee began to clamor again; but there was another part of him that refused to leave his friend, that wanted to understand, to comfort, to wrap the black-clad figure in his arms and...and...

He took another step. "Really, Bruce. You need to eat something. Let me--"

Batman whirled on him. _"I said, don't tempt me,"_ he growled.

The force of the man's full attention was broke upon Clark like a dark wave; he felt himself foundering within it, lost. There was no lighthouse, no beacon, only deep water closing over his head, over his heart. He staggered forward like a drowning man, knowing that if he didn't move he would go to his knees. "Bruce," he gasped, but the space in front of him was empty.

"Go home." The voice resonated from the shadows, untraceable. "Let me be. You don't want to be here."

"But I do," Clark said into the silence.

Nothing responded, not even echoes.

**: : :**

Clark slipped Lois's underwear off as she undid her bra with an inviting smile. She kissed him, twining her arms around his neck, and they tumbled onto the bed together, Lois on top. She tasted of whiskey, with a dark, almost metallic tang underneath it, and Clark felt arousal surge in him, demanding.

She smiled against his mouth at the feel of it, then moved against him, breaking the kiss to plant a tiny kiss on his chin. Then she leaned in and kissed him on the neck.

His pulse leaped again and he made a sharp, stuttering noise of desire. She purred against his neck and started to work her way down his body, kissing and biting as he cried out again and again, until her dark head was between his legs. He tangled his fingers in her hair--it should be shorter, he thought dimly--and she chuckled low in her throat, almost low enough. Almost low enough, he thought, as her mouth closed over him and pleasure ravaged his body. Almost right.

The mouth on him was gentle at first, but as he rocked in a delirium of rapture it...changed. It was hungrier, greedier. It demanded. Commanded. And he was lost in that, lost in the bliss of submitting to it. Hard, so hard, the pressure was tight and fierce in him and the sweetly curved mouth rapacious, avid. He felt a brush of teeth, cool and sharp and precise, stroking across his length, and at that touch Clark's senses erupted into bliss and he twisted upward, upward--

\--into sheets and air, out of the dream and into his empty bed, hearing his voice stammering, begging, pleading for something. Someone. There was no one there.

He cleaned the sticky sheets, grimacing, and went to work, still feeling muzzy-headed, like the world was wrapped in thistledown, far away and blurred. The sun never seemed to get bright enough to burn through the haze in his mind; he mis-filed paperwork three times, earning him a scolding from Perry that he nodded through, unhearing; he dealt with two major emergencies as Superman on auto-pilot, the thankful cheers of the crowd a dim murmur in his ears. And as the sun started to go down, he felt the lights of Gotham glimmering like will-o-the-wisps, inviting, alluring. The witchlight green and blue of Gotham seemed more real than than the blaze of Metropolis gold and white, and somehow he found himself there, walking the cobbled streets, his shoes tapping out a gentle rhythm. Batman wouldn't want Superman here, so he was Clark: fedora pulled down, trench-coat closed against the tendrils of fog that seemed to twine around everything, caressing his feet, curling around his gray flannel pants legs.

He didn't know why he was in Gotham, but it fit his mood: dreamy, lost in the fog, yearning for something, unsure what.  


When he felt the cold, hard muzzle of a gun against his ribs, he almost laughed. "Hand over your wallet and you won't get hurt, hear?" muttered a nervous voice. As he fumbled for his pocket, struggling to focus on the sweating, fidgeting thug, there was a sudden motion and the mugger went flying against the wall.

Batman was between Clark and the mugger, his black cape cutting through the fog like an obsidian knife, the vigilante's presence cutting through the haze in Clark's mind. His attention focused on the dark figure almost painfully, a pinpoint awareness, as if Batman were the only real thing in the world. A strange, dark eagerness seemed to leap in him as Batman closed on the mugger.

Clark could see the thug's face over Batman's shoulder, could see it pale abruptly at whatever the man saw in Batman's expression. “Go,” said the vigilante, and the man gave a mewling cry of panic and turned and scrambled away.

There was a whirling motion, the fog agitating suddenly, and Batman was beside Clark. Very close. "Do you _want_ to die?" whispered the Dark Knight. Something was hammering in Clark's body, some pulse like he had never felt before, and he realized with a sort of dreamy shock that it was lust. The echoes of Batman's question seemed to curl around him, and he knew he wanted to step forward into the circle of that dark cape, to pull the cowl off and gaze fearlessly into those glittering eyes, to put his mouth to that curve of passion and lick into softness and sharpness, to consume and to be consumed.

 

“That gun couldn't have hurt me,” he forced himself to say, trying to keep his voice casual. Desire made everything seem distant, drifting. Bruce wet his lips, a tiny flicker of red, and Clark felt his knees go loose and liquid, felt himself wavering on his feet. He wanted. He wanted so much.

“I didn't mean the gun.” Beneath the distinctive Batman rasp, Clark could hear Bruce's voice, and it was low and yearning as the fire in Clark's spine. Bruce wanted him too, he realized, and the knowledge pulled him a step closer. “Stay away,” said the low growl. _Come to me, come to me, be mine,_ said the voice under the growl, clear as a song. _How I hunger for you._

Clark was close enough to touch him now. Bruce was as still as stone, a statue carved of onyx, or night itself. Clark reached out and touched Bruce's cheek, the skin cool and smooth under his hand. His touch slid to Bruce's lips, tracing the outline of that passionate mouth. “You're so beautiful,” Clark heard himself whisper, unable to say anything but the simplest, deepest truths of his life. “I want you.”

Bruce was totally motionless, unresponsive to Clark's touch, but Clark knew with all his being that Bruce was not impassive, that he burned with the same need Clark did. The alley was still, silent, all of Gotham holding its breath, and Clark realized suddenly what sound was missing. “Your heartbeat,” he said without thinking. “You've found a way to cloak it. I can't hear it at all.”

Bruce drew back at the words, away from Clark's touch, leaving Clark yearning and empty. “Go home. Go back to the sunlight.”

Clark blinked, desolate. “But you want me too,” he said stupidly. “I know you do.”

The mist was between them now, twining, blurring Clark's vision. "Pray you never know how much I want you," said a voice from the fog, and Clark was alone again.

**: : :**

A long night of dreams, feverish and burning. Whenever Clark managed to drift off to sleep for a moment he would dream that Bruce was by his bed, bending over him, eyes bright in his pale face, a faint whisper like silken wings all around him. He dreamed of cool hands on his body and woke up with the blood pounding in him, a riot of desire and heat. He finally gave up and dressed to patrol, steeling himself against the siren call of Gotham's dancing lights on the horizon, calling him to fly, to lose himself in the bliss of Bruce's voice, to demand that Bruce touch him, take him, pierce him with pleasure, pierce...

He saved two cats from trees, stopped a bank robbery, found two lost dogs and a lost ferret, and gave directions to a confused tourist from Wichita, part of his mind marveling at how well he was managing to function. At work he managed to complete a story before deadline and even banter with Lois and Jimmy a little bit, but at lunch he found himself unable to eat and decided to take a walk in the park. Sitting on a park bench, gazing dreamily at the cloudy sky, he suddenly found himself imagining how it would feel if Bruce were to slip up behind him, whisper in his ear. He imagined the breath stirring his hair, the lips almost touching him: _Don't move, Clark. Hold still. Let me touch you. Here._ Transfixed on the bench, oblivious to the world around him, Clark imagined cool lips touching his skin, his neck, and shuddered, torn between desire and a strange fear. _Let me kiss you. Let me claim you. Yes. Submit to me._

Clark came to himself with a shock, achingly erect, horrified to find himself inches away from touching himself in public, from losing himself in the fantasy completely. He whirled, but there was no one there, of course.

He was late back to the _Planet_ from lunch. "Package for you, Mr. Kent," said Jimmy cheerfully. Clark's heart leapt again at the sight of the familiar spiky handwriting; when he tore it open a small, rectangular box of black velvet fell out. Inside was a note: _Wear this. Please._

From a shining chain hung a silver cross, twined around with thorns and roses.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark talks to Alfred and confronts Bruce about what he's learned.

Bruce was cold.  Of course, he was always cold now;  now, when no blood ran in his veins to warm him.

He was cold and thirsty and had been for weeks now.

The dim moonlight touched him like daggers of ice, stroking across him as he leapt across the Gotham rooftops, cape billowing around him like shadow.  Like its stronger, crueler sister, the moon left no mark on his skin but caused him pain when it touched him.  Sunlight would leave him undamaged physically, but writhing in agony.

He welcomed the pain tonight.  It was bearable.

Unlike his thirst.

From the edges of his hearing, preternaturally acute now, he caught the knife-edge of a gasp, the faint click of a switchblade opening.

Faster than any human should be, Batman made for Robinson Park.

The would-be rapist went sprawling across the grass in an instant.  He was up again, panic driving his moves, coming at Batman.  Bruce's finely honed reflexes made the man seem to be moving through honey;  he stepped to the side and deftly, delicately, applied pressure that left the thug unconscious on the ground.

The woman was staring at him.  Batman turned to look at her and she went still, eyes wide with the terror of a mouse who sees the stooping hawk and freezes, unblinking.  "Go home," he grated, and she turned and ran.

The man was still lying on the grass, on his back, his head flung back.  Throat exposed.  Bruce found himself bending over him, touching his neck.  _Checking for a pulse,_ he told himself, but the lie was cold and bitter in his own ears.

Beneath his fingers, the life of the man throbbed, deep and true.  So warm, so sweet.  The man was a criminal, one of the damned of Gotham.  He hardly deserved the lush treasure he carried in his own veins.  Would anyone miss him if Bruce were merely to bend down and...

The thirst was raging in him, a red haze across his vision.  It would be so easy, to finally slake the pain.  Why was he denying himself, his true nature, his destiny?  Just this one time, just one taste--

Bruce pulled his hand away as though the man's skin burned rather than merely warmed.  "No," he heard himself mutter.  The thirst would never be appeased, not with one human, not with a thousand.  He must never start.

He turned away, almost laughing.  The damned of Gotham.  Now he truly knew something of what that meant.

Oh dear God, how he thirsted.

**: : :**

Alfred Pennyworth laid out the teacups and small, round biscuits with meticulous care, then sat down across the table from Clark.  "How can I help you then, Mr. Kent?"

Clark tasted the tea:  Earl Grey, perfect temperature.  "Is it true that Bruce turned you out?"

Alfred cast an ironic glance around the luxurious apartment.  "Would I be here, sir, if he had not?"

"But why?"

Alfred took a moment to sip his tea, his hands gentle on the delicate china. He stared into the teacup as if he would find the right words there, then sighed. "About six weeks ago, Master Bruce came home very late from a party. He was very pale, and seemed...upset. From that night, his demeanor changed. He was abrupt, rude--yes, even ruder than usual," he said with a near-smile. "He seemed to hate the sight of either of us. He sent the boys away first, telling him he no longer needed them. He told Master Dick to go to Bludhaven and not come back." Alfred's face was grim. "It was a terrible row. But when Master Bruce makes up his mind--" He broke off and sighed. "He told Master Tim to stay at Titans Tower from now on, to call that home. Master Tim said nothing, just packed his things and left. I fear he is deeply hurt, however. As for myself, I tried to avoid him as much as possible." He glanced at Clark a bit hesitantly, frowning. "Truth be told, sir, he...frightened me."

Clark narrowed his eyes.  "Frightened you?"

"Yes, sir."  Alfred laughed a little weakly.  "I've known him since he was a boy and thus he has never truly frightened me.  But in the last few weeks, I felt...uneasy around him.  Threatened."  He looked almost ashamed.  "He did nothing to warrant it, Mr. Kent.  He was never worse than curt and dismissive.  And yet, I felt..."

"In danger," Clark said.

"Yes, exactly," Alfred said, looking relieved.  "Have you felt it too, sir?"

"Yes," Clark said shortly, remembering that surge of fear, unwilling to admit to the desire within it.

"The last day I was there, I came across him suddenly in his bedroom.  I hadn't realized he was there.  He...stared at me.  Then he said, 'I can't stand it.  You'll be leaving today.' And that was that."  Alfred stared down at his teacup, his shoulders slumping.  "I didn't want to leave him, but I felt...God help me, I felt relieved.  Like I was escaping something horrible."  His voice was nearly a whisper;  when he looked up at Clark again his eyes were wet.  "And Mr. Kent.  After he left the room, I realized there was glass all over the floor.  He had shattered his bedroom mirror."  He squared his shoulders again.  "I stayed long enough to clean it up and then I...fled."  He looked at Clark with something like desperation.  "Will you help him, sir?  I fear it is beyond me."

The cross on Clark's chest was cool;  he could feel the tiny thorns against his skin.  "I'll try, Alfred."

**: : :**

He could hear Clark even before he saw him as he re-entered the cave.  He heard the rush of life in him, the steady, vibrant pulse of brightness that left him feeling nearly weak with hunger.  As he stepped into the center of the cave he heard the beat pick up, the blood rushing faster at the sight of him, and he clenched his jaw against a whimper of pure want.  "Clark," he whispered harshly, "Go away."

Clark--dressed in his civilian clothes--stepped out of the shadows.  As he drew nearer Bruce could feel pure pain prickle along his nerve endings and he exulted:  Clark was wearing the cross.  It would keep him safe.

It would keep them both safe.

He stepped away almost involuntarily from the heat that seared him from the holy artifact, and Clark's eyes went hurt and then thoughtful.  He drew out the cross and watched Bruce's eyes follow it.  "Why did you give me this, Bruce?"

"A token of my esteem," Bruce said sardonically, trying to focus past the pain, past the thirst and the need.  There was so much _life_ in Clark.  So much, so beautiful...

"Bruce."  Clark's voice was soft, kind, warm as the memory of sunlight.  "Please.  Alfred told me about the mirror.  It's--Are you?--"  He stopped as if appalled at the weight of the question.  "Bruce, are you a vampire?"  When Bruce didn't answer, he stepped forward, cupping the cross in his hand.  "Bruce--"

"Stay away," Bruce hissed, slitting his eyes against the pain.

"Answer me."

For a second, Bruce almost commanded him to go away.  He could do that now, exert his will so that a mortal being was compelled to obey.  But it wouldn't last forever, he knew that, knew _Clark._   The man would be back with more questions, more demands.  And Bruce was so very tired of lying.

"I was at a party," he said abruptly, turning his back so he wouldn't have to look at Clark's eyes.  "There was a woman there.  Fiorella Bianchi.  She was...very beautiful, witty, urbane.  We danced together almost all night.  I was...unable to deny her.  She took me to her room and at midnight, she...bit me."  He remembered anew the paralysis, the horror, the unbearable anguish as she drained the life from him, pain beyond imagining.  "She decided it would be fun to turn me, to make me a vampire myself.  They don't turn many, but they prefer to turn the wealthy."  Clark was very still behind him, but Bruce could hear his heart hammering.  "The first thing I was aware of when I regained consciousness in my new life was her laughter, like tiny silver bells.  And the thirst."  He stopped and swallowed.

"Bruce," said Clark, his voice small in the cave.  "Have you--have you--"

"No!"  Bruce made a sharp gesture with his hand.  "Never.  And I never will.  No matter what."

There was a long pause.  When Clark spoke again his voice was almost back to normal.  "Synthesized blood.  And stored blood.  You can buy from blood banks.  We can work with this."

Bruce shook his head painfully.  "It's no good, Clark.  Blood substitutes, even blood from a bank, it's...no good."  He turned to meet Clark's eyes.  "Apparently it's not the blood itself that matters, it's the life force it's part of.  It's the _life_ that vampires--that _we_ consume.  Cut off from the pulse, the beat of the fresh, hot life, the liquid itself is...inert.  Like warming yourself at ashes, or embracing a corpse."  Even the cross couldn't seem to keep him from gazing at Clark's neck.  "She warned me it was so.  All the sustenance is from taking the vitality straight from another being, drawing it from his veins, feeling it coursing between you, filling you and quenching your thirst..."  He looked back at Clark's eyes with some effort and realized with a shock they were dreamy, almost glassy;  Clark was swaying slightly.  _Damn me._   He kept forgetting the power of the vampire to enthrall its prey, kept finding himself throwing out words like a net to entrap Clark without meaning to.  It was so easy...

"Clark!" he said sharply.  "Snap out of it."  The cross, he reminded himself.  The cross would keep Clark safe.

Clark shook his head as if trying to wake himself up.  "What--what are you--"

"Vampires can do that," Bruce said curtly.  "Hypnotize our prey.  Fiorella did it to me, trapping me in a dream and illusion of pleasure so I walked willingly to my doom.  The reality is quite different," he grated.

"Did it...hurt?  To be bitten?"

"I'd never felt such pain in my life," Bruce said, wincing at the memory alone.  "But a vampire can make you think you want it, can even make you beg to feel the teeth buried in your flesh."

Clark shuddered violently and Bruce felt a bleak satisfaction that he had finally managed to evoke disgust in the other man.  _Hate me, shrink from me,_ _reject me._ _I can't bear anything else._  

But when Clark met Bruce's eyes again, they were the same as ever--clear, straightforward, and terrifyingly trusting.  "So what will happen to you?  If you must...feed...and you refuse to, will you die?"

Bruce laughed low in his throat.  "I'm already dead, Clark."  Clark's gaze didn't flinch away.  "I can't die of thirst.  Even sunlight won't destroy me.  It causes me anguish, but doesn't harm my body.  If I don't drink, I'll grow weaker.  Maybe eventually I'll finally be too weak to hunt, too weak too move.  But I'll still thirst, unendingly."  Clark shook his head mutely, as if he could change that fact by denying it.  "Unless someone gives me a cleaner end."

Wariness in the azure eyes now.  "What?"

"You can do it, Clark.  Heat vision will cleanse the undead.  Let me die at your hand, in the light."

"No!"  Clark backed up a step, horror etched on his face.  "I won't take a life!"

Bruce moved closer, close enough to feel the argent pain of the cross along his nerves.  "I'm not a 'life,' Clark.  I'm an unholy sham of existence, a monster.  I'm not even human."

"You're a hero.  You're my friend."

"When I get hungry enough, I'll give in to the bloodlust.  Every vampire does.  I won't be able to resist the chance to feel warm again, to feel alive, if only for a moment of borrowed time.  I'll kill and I'll drink."  He eyed Clark's throat.  "Only that cross is saving you now, Clark.  It's the only thing keeping me from sinking my fangs into you and drawing all that hot life into me, feeding on you and draining you dry."

Very deliberately, Clark reached up and removed the cross, tucking it into his pocket.  Bruce hissed in anger, but Clark's eyes were steady.  "I don't believe you."  He turned his back on Bruce and began to climb the stairs.  "I'll be spending the night here.  Without the cross on me.  And I'll be untouched in the morning."

Bruce watched him go.  He had looked determined and calm, but Bruce could hear the blood pounding in him, a wild, galloping pulse.  Clark was terrified of him.

And well he should be.

For a long time, Bruce stood in the middle of the cave, unmoving.  Clark would be upstairs, lying between satin sheets, his eyes closed and his neck bare.  If Bruce were to slip into the room, to stand over him, those unearthly blue eyes would open:  no longer steady and clear, but fogged with the dreamy compulsion Bruce laid on him.  He would smile at Bruce and arch his throat, his vulnerable throat, eyes heavy with enchantment.  Inviting.  And then Bruce could finally drink his fill. 

Dark lust surged in him at the thought of Clark under him, pinned by his body, pierced by his fangs, unmoving as Bruce took what he wanted.  It would feel so good...

No.  Bruce would finally be satisfied, but Clark--Clark would suffer untold agony.  Clark trusted him.

He was Clark's friend.  And a hero.  He would not taste human blood.

Or Kryptonian.

Bruce realized his hands had curled into fists and unclenched them finger by finger.  Then he changed his clothes and walked upstairs very carefully, as if each step were a test to be passed.

Bruce Wayne sat in his moonlit living room and sipped his synthetic blood, waiting for morning.

**: : :**

Clark lay in the moonlight, trying to sleep.  His neck was bare, the cross laid aside.  He had said he trusted Bruce.  He _did_ trust Bruce.  He knew wasn't going to open his eyes to find a dark figure by the bed, looking down at him with a gaze that seemed to pin him to the bed and rob him of volition.  He wasn't going to feel Bruce sit down next to him, feel cool fingers stroking his face and neck.  He wasn't going to hear that impossibly beautiful voice whisper _You've been waiting_ _for me, and I wouldn't dream of disappointing you._   He was safe.  Perfectly safe.

Hours went by and Clark turned onto his side, curled around whatever odd and tangled emotion he seemed to be feeling.  It must be relief, mixed with anxiety and worry for Bruce.

It couldn't be disappointment.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's vampiric sire pays him a visit and meets Clark.

Clark Kent surfaced from a confused dream of blood and mirrors to the sound of voices.  The black satin sheets of Wayne Manor shifted slightly around him, caressing, as he focused:  Bruce's voice, and a woman's, light and delicate.

"Pfah!" the woman's voice spat.  "To find you drinking this synthetic swill--it disgusts me."  Her voice lilted with a slight Italian accent.  "Bruce, my child.  Why have you not yet drunk of the true life?  Do you still resist your destiny?"

"I do and I will, Fiorella."

"Such informal address for one's sire!  The proper term should be 'mistress.'"  Silence.  "Bruce.  You cannot resist forever.  You grow weaker by the day.  How it pains me to see your handsome face so lean, so haggard, when you should be sweetly sated."  An exasperated sigh.  "Come here and kneel to your mistress and creator."

There was a long pause.  In the silence Clark shifted quietly to slip the thorny cross around his neck once more.  Then Fiorella's silvery voice spoke again, sounding both surprised and almost weary.

"I did not expect such resistance, such willpower, from you when I made you one of us, Bruce Wayne.  You are apparently more than you seem."

Bruce's laugh grated through the Manor, raising the hair on the back of Clark's neck.  He began to make his way cautiously toward the stairs.

"It is of no matter," Fiorella continued carelessly.  "If you do not sup, eventually you will become weak enough that your will shall bend to mine.  I cannot make you drink--that choice must be yours alone.  But I can make you my thrall.  Soon you will kneel to me, child.  And one day you will freely choose to dine on human blood."  Her voice was dreamy.  "Oh Bruce, the ecstasy you are missing.  The sweetness, the all-consuming rapture as life flows between you and your prey, as you feel their struggles weakening, as they submit to your strength.  As you drink deep and feel the heat in your body, suffusing your flesh, filling you with strength and power as you _take_ what you want."

"Stop it."  Bruce's voice was flat.  Clark could hear the faint tremor in it.

Fiorella's laugh was a sweet carillon.  "Already you yearn to experience it, to taste the fresh blood and thrill to the pulse fluttering under your mouth like a trapped bird, unable to free itself.  I see the hunger in your eyes, young and stubborn one.  Your thirst is bitter and nearly undoes you.  Your thirst...for the one skulking at the top of the stairs, perhaps?" 

Clark froze in shock and Fiorella went on merrily, "Come out, little sparrow.  Reveal yourself to your betters."

She clapped her hands sharply and Clark found himself descending the staircase.  At the bottom was a young woman, almost a girl, with silvery-gold hair piled in ringlets on top of her head, gray eyes alight with laughter.  She was slender, tiny, and yet power emanated from her in waves.  As he reached the bottom of the stairs, she stepped forward.  "Oh Bruce, I can understand why you wouldn't want to share this morsel.  The life in him is so strong, so--"

The vampire recoiled as she came close enough to sense the cross around his neck, her lips drawing up over her teeth to reveal the delicate pointed fangs.  She hissed, a purely feral sound of rage, bestial.  Clark felt dread and terror clench around him but was unable to move.  Fear, anger, hatred--and nothing more, no attraction, no allure.  Fiorella could compel his body, but she seemed to have no hold on his will.  Bruce stood next to the woman, his eyes fixed on her, his posture wary. 

She pointed at Clark's neck, the cross hanging there.  "Curse you, why do you allow _that_ in your house?"

"You know we cannot compel a human to remove a holy symbol, Fiorella."

As quickly as the rage had swept her face, it was gone again;  the monster transmuted into the beauty once more.  Fiorella smiled sweetly and cupped Bruce's face in her hand.  "One day, my child, you'll embrace the pleasure of the feast, the delight of fresh life surging into you.  You _cannot_ resist your need forever.  You will truly be a magnificent addition to our number, rich in power and wisdom.  I look forward to the day we can share a meal together."  She leaned forward and touched her pale lips to his lightly;  Clark raged against his compulsion but couldn't move a muscle.  The female vampire turned and smiled at him, her lips curving mockingly, then turned and slipped from the Manor.

Clark's locked limbs released and he stumbled forward, gasping, a red haze of fury across his vision.  For a sickening moment he wanted nothing in the world so much as to see the delicate vampire's body wrapped in cleansing flame, convulsing and blackening...he staggered to the sofa and clung to its back, panting for breath.  "You just let her go!" he snarled at Bruce.

For a moment, an answering anger snapped in Bruce's eyes.  "She's centuries old, confident in her power.  I'm young, untried, and--and she's right, I'm weak."  His shoulders slumped.  "Weak, and growing weaker every day.  I can't fight her."  Bruce's fists clenched.  "One day she'll come to me and find me too enfeebled to resist her.  I'll become her thrall, a slave, my spirit bound to her whim."  He growled, deep in his throat, a nearly animal sound.  "Don't think for a moment it's not that I don't yearn to fight her, that I don't hate her with my entire soul."  He laughed, low and bitter.  "Not that I have one any longer."

"Don't," Clark said.  "Don't say such things."

Bruce scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth as if to wipe away a bad taste, grimacing.  "When she saw the cross," Clark said after a time.  "She snarled.  I saw...I saw her fangs."  He looked up at Bruce.  "You don't seem to have fangs."

Bruce seemed to seize on the change of subject almost eagerly.  "They only become prominent when angered or...or ready to feed," he said.  "Otherwise they're close to normal."  He bared his teeth, the canines only slightly longer than a human's. 

Clark stepped closer, stopping when Bruce's eyes slitted with pain.  He slipped off the cross, ignoring Bruce's protest, and put it on an end table.  "I want to see," he said, drawing closer.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Bruce opened his mouth again.  Clark reached out and touched the teeth gently, running his finger along the edge of ivory, from canine to canine.  Bruce closed his eyes and made a small noise deep in his throat;  Clark could feel him trembling.  Were those canines ever so slightly longer, were they curving just a bit more?  His finger passed along the cool smoothness and Bruce whispered "Clark," his tongue darting out at the "l" to touch Clark's skin so briefly. 

"You need to be stronger," Clark said as he drew his hand back.  "We have to fight her, and you need to be stronger."  He felt like he was in a very small boat, approaching some vast fall of water;  he could hear it roaring in his ears.  "You need to drink."

Bruce's eyes snapped open.  _"No."_

"Just a little--"

"--There is no _just a little_ for a vampire," snarled Bruce.  "Even one bite will kill a human."

The drop was closer, dizzying vertigo rushing through Clark's body.  "I'm not a human.  It probably won't kill me."  He touched his neck, pulling aside his collar.  Fear and resolve and something else, something deeper and more exhilarating, dragged him ahead inexorably.  "Drink from me, Bruce."

The world dropped away, leaving him suspended as he waited for Bruce's answer.

**: : :**

Bruce stared at Clark, watching terror and determination chase across those clear-cut features.  Clark feared him.  He could take away that fear, he knew, replace it with dreamy, narcotic resignation that bordered on bliss.  But he couldn't take away the pain, the burning, the anguish of the feeding.  "Never," he heard himself whisper, but it sounded weak and pale in his own ears.  He swallowed in a dry throat.  "Never," he repeated, more strongly.

"The sun will heal me after you're done," Clark said as if they were discussing battle strategy, as if they weren't talking about Bruce consuming his friend's blood. 

"I will not feed from you!  Ever!"

Anger snapped in Clark's eyes.  "Then you'll be enslaved to that... _creature._   We'll lose you!"  He flinched and added, more softly, "I'll--I'll lose you."  He shook his head, his voice resolute and businesslike again.  "The JLA can't afford to have you enthralled to a vampire, Bruce.  It's the only reasonable decision."

_Reasonable..._   Bruce felt anything but reasonable, listening to Clark's blood thunder in the space between them.  Clark was the sweet voice of pragmatism now, cool and collected, dispassionate.  It would be so easy to use his ignorant, blind resolve against him, to finally drink deeply...

And Clark would hate and fear him forever after that, would never be able to forget the agony Bruce had knowingly inflicted on him. 

It was too high a price.

"I won't do it," Bruce said.

Something flickered in Clark's eyes.  "I...I know that it would probably be...distasteful to you, but--"

"Distasteful?"  The word was shocked from Bruce.  "What?"

The azure of Clark's eyes was shadowed.  "When the vampire lord Crucifer controlled me...when he tried to drink my blood he--he spat it out, said my alien blood was impossible to drink, repugnant.  But Bruce...you need to drink, no matter how foul and disgusting--"

Bruce hadn't realized he was moving until he found Clark's hand in his.  The Kryptonian flinched slightly but held his ground as Bruce turned the hand over gently, resting his fingers against the fluttering pulse at the wrist.  Bruce felt the thirst leap in him, stronger than ever.  "Crucifer was either a fool, or mad, or both.  I tell you, Kal-El, that the sound of your blood is a song that drowns out all others, the scent of it more tantalizing that anything I've ever experienced."  His voice sounded distant, faraway.  He shouldn't be saying such things, and yet the words he'd kept himself from saying so long kept tumbling out.  "Ever since I sensed the life in you, all others have been as tempting as...drinking muddy water when one yearns for the brightest, most glorious wine.  Your blood...it sings.  I hear it in my sleep, golden and alluring as the sunlight that shuns me now."

Clark rested his hands on Bruce's shoulders, met his eyes.  "I don't shun you, Bruce," he said, his gaze level.  "I never will."

Bruce recoiled.  "Don't make promises you can't keep," he muttered.  Somehow he managed to turn his back, to walk away from the warmth, the life freely offered.  He felt colder with every step. 

At the top of the stairs, he looked down.  Clark was still standing, looking up at him, his face pale and resolute.  "Wear that cross, Clark," Bruce called down.  "Fiorella knows I...that you're a friend of mine now.  She'll be happy to kill you just to make a point."  The image of Fiorella delicately bending Clark's head back, sinking her needle-sharp fangs into that shining flesh, struck him like a physical pain, stirring emotions he couldn't bear to look at too closely.

As he retreated into his bedroom, the heavy curtains drawn against the morning sun's arrival, he heard the cross being drawn off the table and drew a sigh of relief. Fiorella couldn't touch Clark now. No one should ever caress that bright alien skin, taste that sunlit blood, drink the life that sang so intoxicatingly.  
 __  
None but me, a voice whispered from the dark corners of his mind, but he pushed it aside and tried to sleep.

The memory of Clark's pulse was a lullaby and a lure, haunting his dreams.  



	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman emerges from his cave to help the League in a fierce battle.  That's easy.  It's the aftermath that's difficult.

The darkness of the cave was blessing and balm as Bruce sat in the lightless space, listening to the bats stirring overhead.  Beside him was a beaker with synthetic blood in it.  He reached out and sipped at it, grimacing at the bitter, thin taste.  There was no life in it;  it would maintain his existence at a bare minimum, but that was all.  Every night that passed without true sustenance left him weaker, both physically and mentally.  His mind wandered, sometimes.  Always to the same thing:  the offer Clark Kent had made a week ago.

_"Drink from me."_

He tried to pull his mind away from the moment.  The more he dwelt on it, the weaker and more confused he became, enervated with longing.  It did no good to replay the scene in his mind, no good at all to imagine how it would have felt to lay his lips on that glorious neck, so strong and powerful.  To imagine how Clark would have trembled and submitted as the fangs slipped into his skin, how life would have rushed from him and into Bruce, filling him with delirious pleasure.  Heat and light mixed, sweetness that intoxicates almost beyond bearing...the thirst in him giving way to joy in the taking, the taking, the--

His own guttural noises of dreamy rapture roused him from his unholy reverie.  Grimacing in disgust, he hurled the beaker across the cave, taking a churlish pleasure in the sound of its shattering.  "Monster," he muttered, listening to the word echo back, accusing him.

The computer monitor flickered;  Flash's voice came from it.  "Uh, Bats?"

"What is it?"

Wally's voice sounded more hesitant than usual.  "Look, I know you've got a good sulk on, but we've got a big battle brewing up here with some very angry Parademons, and all the big guns are out fighting, and we need a strategist, and I really don't think that's playing to my strengths."

"I don't--"

"Superman said to tell you to come up.  He said we need you."  There was a faint sound of someone yelling, distorted and tinny through the Watchtower's speakers.  "Crap," Flash breathed.  When he spoke again his voice was brisk and professional.  "Batman, we need you here _now._   We're being beaten badly.  Superman's out of the action and--"

Bruce had the cowl on in a fluid motion.  "I'm ready.  Teleport now."

**: : :**

The Apokoliptian ships were limping homeward a few hours later.  Batman watched the clean-up taking place in space, the debris being removed.  Green Lantern and Wonder Woman were helping Superman float toward the Watchtower;  the Kryptonian was holding one shoulder awkwardly, pain making his face tense.  But he'd live.

Batman forced himself to relax, to undo muscles stiff with worry.  There were no serious casualties beyond Superman's wound;  some bruises and sprains and Supergirl had a bad concussion.  It might have been worse if he hadn't been shaken out of his self-pity to come up and help.

"Thanks, Bats," Wally said.  "You can, uh, you can go back to your cave if you like.  Get caught up on missed sulk-time."

Bruce almost smiled.  "Yes," he said, and headed toward the teleporters.

Instead he found himself in front of the sickbay door.

He paused.  He should go home.  He shouldn't have come here.  He didn't know why he'd come.

The door hissed open at his touch.

The clean, sharp scents of ammonia and disinfectant hit his nostrils, making him grimace.  From a cubicle at the end of the hall, he could hear Clark's voice mingling with Diana's as she ran some diagnostics on him. 

Under the ammonia, Bruce caught another scent, rich and delicate. 

He stopped in the middle of the room, taking a deep breath.  He knew why he'd come here.  Just to be close, to drink in that scent like wine.  Just for a moment.  His teeth ached.  He had to go.

As he turned, he caught sight of red droplets on the floor.  Two.  Three.

He should leave.  But he was bending and touching the red liquid.  Looking at his gloves, the redness barely visible against the black.  It was so cold in the infirmary.  He was shivering.  So cold.  So thirsty.

He brought his fingers to his lips.

The taste of blood and leather was sweet in his mouth, sunlight and strength, even better than he had ever imagined.  Clark's blood.  There were still faint echoes of Clark's life in the blood, not quite gone yet.  It touched his thirst, just enough to make it seem even worse.  Somehow he was on his knees now, he didn't remember getting there, the taste was like rapture, strong, overwhelming.  There were other droplets of blood on the floor and he knew he was about to get on all fours and bend his head to them.  His teeth _hurt_ and he knew his fangs were fully extruded, the taste of Clark's blood like a siren's call he couldn't ignore.  Two more drops...

"Oh," said Diana's voice behind him, "Batman, are you--"

"Go," he managed to growl.  "Get out."  He curled around his thirst, biting back a moan.

Diana took a sharp breath.  "You'd better go, Diana," said Clark.  "I'll take care of him." 

The door hissed open and closed again.  "You too," Bruce managed.  "Get out."

"No."

Bruce surged upward, baring his teeth, advancing on Clark.  "Get out, damn you, or I'll--"

Clark's eyes were shadowed, afraid, but steady.  "I said I was willing."  He tugged his uniform to the side at the neck, exposing more skin.  "I'm ready, Bruce."  The blue cloth was tattered and bloody at the other shoulder.  "Do it."

Bruce managed to stop, struggling.  "Not--not here," he whispered, unable to look away from the shining skin, rosy with life.

"My quarters, then."

"No!"  Bruce shook his head, trying to clear it from the bloodlust.  "Not here, not--not anywhere.  Never.  I won't hurt you."

Clark bit his lip. "I won't lose you, Bruce. You've admitted you want it. I'm willing." He paused, then lowered his voice, the tone becoming caressing, insinuating. "You've tasted my blood now. Could it...sustain you?"

"Sustain--!" Bruce felt hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat and forced it back down. "It was life itself. It was...glorious." He felt the urge grip him to lift his fingers to his mouth and lick them in vain hope of a lingering taste. "No other could ever slake my thirst now."

For a moment, Clark looked simply, absurdly pleased. He beamed as if he'd been given a great compliment. Then he took a long breath and his smile shifted, his eyes slipping slightly shut. "We both know you need it," he said. "I can see how much you crave it." His voice was low, confiding, certain. If not for the fervent pounding of his heartbeat, Bruce would have sworn he sounded eager. "I can see how much you want it." Clark took a step forward, then another.

He was staring at Bruce's mouth, and Bruce realized suddenly Clark had never seen him with his fangs fully extended. He felt oddly vulnerable as Clark gazed at him, at the bared evidence of the bloodlust he couldn't conceal. "How much you _need_ to sink your teeth into me and just feed...take...take everything..." He broke off with something close to a gasp and shuddered all over. Bruce could hear the fear in his galloping pulse, but it didn't show in his rapt expression.

Clark reached up slowly and unclasped his cape, letting the scarlet cloth slide to the floor in a rustling susurration of pooling crimson. Bruce couldn't seem to pull his eyes from the exposed curve of neck, the bright skin, the life glowing underneath. "I won't struggle. You can do what you want, what you need to do. There's no reason to suffer like this, Bruce. Take my blood, freely. It's yours." He swallowed, his eyes steady and sane now, unfogged. "I'm yours." 

The resolute clarity in his eyes was more terrifying than the dreamy haze, somehow. 

Clark took another step forward, close enough now that with one step Bruce could close the distance between them, touch him, pull him close.  He wasn't wearing the cross. 

Bruce laughed, low and triumphant, and stepped forward, seeing an answering triumph flare in Clark's eyes.  "I thought I was the one with the hypnotic powers," he whispered, and bent his mouth to Clark's neck.

He kissed the bare skin, very lightly, feeling his teeth brush flesh. 

Then he stepped away.

"Come back here!" Clark called after him as he headed for the infirmary door, fury barely leashed in his voice.  Bruce whirled to glare at the other man and Clark fell back a step.

"I won't be manipulated into hurting you, Clark, so stop trying.  Unless you'd like me to match wills with you and attempt to enthrall you into using your heat vision on me and giving me a clean end."

Clark blanched.  "You wouldn't."  
   
Bruce knew his smile was anything but mirthful.  "It would only take a moment, Clark.  Just the briefest moment where I bent your will to mine and convinced you that the world would be better without me..."  He put as much power as he could into his voice and Clark staggered slightly.  "I think I could manage it if I tried."

This time it was Superman who fled the infirmary. 

Batman stood in the silent medlab and stared at the floor for three minutes, maybe four.  Then he turned and left, the drops of crimson still untouched, and headed for the teleporters and the dark, silent cave, away from the scent of blood.  Headed for safety.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A note from Fiorella forces Clark's hand.

_"Please..."_

Clark Kent woke up with the plea still on his lips, shuddering and sweating.  He threw off the covers to let cool night air flow over him.  Three days since the encounter on the Watchtower and he hadn't had any contact with Batman.  Three days since Bruce had rejected his latest entirely pragmatic offer to drink his blood.  Clark felt his hands bunch into fists.  Why wouldn't Bruce see reason?  If he weakened much more, his sire vampire would be able to control him.  He could only become strong enough to resist her by drinking blood.  Clark could probably survive being fed on by a vampire.  It was the only reasonable solution.

Clark closed his eyes, trying not to think about it.  He didn't dwell on being bitten because it scared him, he told himself.  And there was nothing wrong with being frightened at the idea of being bitten by a vampire.  Nothing to be ashamed of in admitting that he was afraid.  So there was nothing cowardly about the fact that he'd been trying not to think about how it would feel to be bitten.  It would hurt, Bruce had told him that.  There was no need to wonder just exactly how it would feel as Bruce's lips touched him, cool and sure.

He remembered the moment he had seen Bruce's fangs in the infirmary, curved and strong, and felt a welter of emotions--fear, it was mostly fear, of course, he told himself, heart pounding.  There was no reason to be obsessing about that fear, to wonder how it would feel at the moment those teeth pierced his flesh, as he felt the life start to flow out of him.  No reason to imagine how it might sound, how Bruce might make a greedy noise of satisfaction as he finally drank deeply, holding Clark close, holding him up as Clark's knees went weak, as he fell against Bruce, unable to move.  Would he feel the energy draining from him, slow lassitude filling his body, leaving him aching and--

Clark twisted on the bed.  He was doing it again.  For all his talk of fear--and he _was_ afraid, yes--he couldn't seem to stop thinking about it.  Couldn't seem to stop imagining it.  Couldn't seem--

Couldn't seem to stop wanting it.

He muttered a curse under his breath that was close to a moan, but the realization wouldn't go away, wouldn't be unthought.  It was perverse and completely insane, but he _wanted_ Bruce to drink his blood.

Clark sat up and ran his hands through his hair, then buried his face in them.  The thorny cross swung gently from his neck.  Was this the enthralling power of the vampire Bruce spoke of?  No, he had felt that when close to Bruce, felt his will being sapped and subverted--he suppressed a shudder at the memory that wasn't entirely of fear.  This wasn't the same.  Not quite.  This was something...more.  Deeper.

Clark got up and slipped into costume.  Now that he had admitted to himself, it was no good going back to bed, no good waiting for Bruce to show up. 

When he launched himself into the sky, the cross stayed behind on his bedstand.

**: : :**

The cave was silent again save for the subtle whispers of bats in the ceiling.  Clark stared around, wondering if Bruce had the power to transform into a bat.  There was a letter on heavy, creamy vellum lying on the computer desk, the letters written in crimson ink--at least, Clark hoped it was ink.  It was dated that day.  He spotted the signature and backtracked to read the rest:

_Bruce, dear one.  Surely by now you have given in and dined.  If so, you have learned the full measure of your powers, the joy of your dominion_.  _You have learned how much you owe me, who has seen fit to give you the gift of eternal life and youth, as well as puissance beyond measure._   _If you have remained stubborn and intransigent, you are too weak to deny me any longer.  Either way, I call upon you, upon my bond as your creator, and command you to meet me tomorrow at midnight at the Gotham city graveyard._   _There you shall either join with me freely or not.  But you shall join me._   _Your sire, Fiorella._

"Bruce," Clark said softly, knowing that the other man's heightened senses would have already heard his heartbeat.  "Where are you?"

Silence.  Then a low whisper, almost soundless:  "Clark."

It was coming from upstairs, from the Manor proper.  Clark glided up to the mansion and found his way to Bruce's room, the curtains closed, the room plunged into inky darkness.  But Clark didn't need light to see, didn't need illumination to take in Bruce, curled up on his bed, pale and shaking.  He looked almost translucent, like he was made of nothing but glass and alabaster, ready to be shattered.

Clark felt his heartbeat stutter desperately on seeing him.  It was too late, he was too weak.  Then Bruce opened his eyes and met his gaze, his lips curling in a slight, affectionate smile, and it was as if a lamp came on inside him, the brightness of his will making him radiant.  "Clark," he whispered, his voice caressing.  "You've come to save me."

"Yes," Clark managed, his heart pounding.

The dark eyes closed.  "Then make it quick."  Then he added, so low no human could have heard it,  "If you could bring yourself to hold me as you do it, that would be...a kindness."

Clark opened his mouth, but nothing came out.  There didn't seem to be enough air in the room, somehow.  He tried again.  "Bruce.  I'm not here to kill you.  I will not abandon you.  I can't--"  he choked;  there were too many words, he didn't know which ones to say.  "I can't stop thinking about you.  I dream of you.  I want to be with you, by your side, no matter what."  Bruce opened his mouth, his eyes ominous, but Clark overrode him.  "It's not the glamor.  It's more than that.  It's _right._   My place is with you, near you, come what may."  He was kneeling by the bed now, Bruce staring up at him in shock.  "I--I wouldn't want to live if I lost you," Clark heard himself whisper as he took Bruce's hands--so pale, so thin--in his.  "I couldn't.  I would rather die than be without you."  Bruce's eyes were wide, almost frightened;  Clark chuckled slightly at the reaction.  "And so, Bruce, you _will_ feed from me, even if I have to stuff my fist down that obstinate throat of yours."

"You...mean that."  Bruce sounded disbelieving, stunned.

"About shoving my fist down your throat?  Well--"

"No," said Bruce, shrugging off Clark's attempt at humor.  "About living without me."

"I--"  Clark swallowed hard, feeling sudden moisture prickling at his eyes.  "Kryptonians are long-lived under a yellow sun, Bruce.  I could live a very long time.  I might be immortal.  And whenever I thought about it, about the years stretching out endlessly before me, I didn't wonder how I could bear to go on without my parents, without Lana, without Lois."  He bowed his head over Bruce's thin hands, touching his forehead to them, closing his eyes.  "I always found myself wondering how I could get up each morning without my gadfly, my comrade, my best friend."  He took a deep breath and his voice fell to a whisper.  "I will not lose you, Bruce.  It's selfish of me, I know. Selfish to feel...joy at knowing I can have you by my side forever."

The last word fell into the silence of the room and seemed to hang there.  In that silence, Bruce's face went from shocked to...accepting.  Almost peaceful.  "No matter how much pain I cause you?"  he asked.

"If that pain is the price I pay to be with you, I swear I'll pay it gladly."  He could feel Bruce's hands trembling.  "Sit up and I'll--"

A gentle laugh.  "Clark.  I'm not sure I have the strength to move."

Clark bit his lip, then folded back the dark sheets from Bruce's silk-clad body.  Slowly, carefully, Clark joined him on the bed.  He took Bruce's body in his arms--so light, as if the bones had been hollowed with hunger--and pulled him close, slipping underneath him.  Tangling a hand in black hair, he bent Bruce's head to his bare neck. 

"Drink," he whispered.  "I can bear it."

For a long moment, all he felt were Bruce's lips on his neck, moving slightly as if in silent prayer.  "Clark," Bruce breathed, his voice ragged.  "Forgive me."

Clark felt teeth touch his neck, cool and sharp.  There was a long pause in which he braced himself against the pain.  Then he felt the twin pinpricks of cold slide home, piercing through his skin.

Everything seemed to slow down as dizziness swept through him.  A tingling chill began to spread from the place where Bruce's lips caressed, making his arms and legs start to feel heavy, languid.  The chill grew stronger, edged toward pain.

And then paused.  Paused...and started to become something else.

It was supposed to hurt, Clark thought confusedly.  It was supposed to be agony beyond bearing.  And yet the feeling was gentle, suffusive, a strange drawing _pull_ that pulsed through his body in waves.  His whole body seemed to be enveloped in a haze of sensation, radiating from the pinpoints that pierced his neck, a long and languorous frisson.

As if from far away, he felt his body stirring into arousal, but the exquisite sensuality ebbing and flowing through his body wasn't centered there.  Every nerve ending seemed to be aching with pleasure, his whole body saturated with a sleepy rapture.  It was better than he had ever let himself dream, a dark ecstasy that went on and on, endlessly.

He heard a gentle _lapping_ noise, like a cat with cream, and felt Bruce's tongue flickering against his skin.  Bruce's lips were warmer now, Bruce's body warmer against him, the needles of delight buried in his flesh curling ripples of pleasure through him.  Power, he could feel it flowing between them, hot and heady, and he was suspended in sensuousness without climax, an eternity of tormenting sweetness.  He moaned, unable to speak, unable even to think, and pressed against the dark angel driving him into bliss, wanting more, wishing he could beg for more, pleasure locking the words in his throat.

For his part, Bruce was torn between ecstasy and anguish.  Clark's life was rich and bright as sunlight, surging into him like a wave of glory, more powerful and delicious than he could ever have imagined.  Clark trembled against him, and Bruce knew the agony had begun for him, the torment of feeling his life drained, consumed.  And yet, and yet...as Bruce felt the energy flow between them, warming him, bringing life to his frozen limbs once more, he couldn't seem to banish the dark and unholy joy rising in him.  This was _right_ , his mind rejoiced.  This was as it should be:  his prey submitting to his power, yielding its life to him.  And Bruce knew, with an agony worse than when Fiorella had drained his life, that he would do this again and revel in it, luxuriating in the pleasure of it, the richness and delight, unheeding of Clark's pain.  Having tasted such bliss, he would want it as long as he existed, want to feel the hot and heavy throb of power under his lips, thrumming in his body.  _Monster.  Monster,_   whispered his mind, even as his heart and his body exulted.

Clark moaned, a breathy sound that went through Bruce like silver knives, like sunlight.  And then Clark shifted his body and Bruce felt him, hard against him, pressing into his hip, meeting his own arousal with a shock of pure sensation.  Clark sighed, a long exhalation of sheer delight, unmistakable, and pressed against him harder. 

The realization drove Bruce almost entirely out of himself.  He heard himself make a low, guttural sound of pure need and bit harder, drawing in life with a rush of sensation.  " _Ahh,"_ Clark moaned at the fierce assault, his voice joyous,  " _Yes_ ," and Bruce's mind went nearly blank with desire, empty of everything but the glory surging between them and a realization he could no longer avoid.  He had thought he craved Clark's blood.  But as he took what Clark was offering him freely, joyously, he realized he desired far more than Clark's blood.  He wanted his body, his heart.  He craved Clark himself, all the brightness and delight of the man.  Everything about him.  Forever.

A stray thought, abstracted, wandered into his pleasure-hazed brain:  _You need to stop.  You'll kill him._  

Startled, Bruce took his mouth away from Clark's neck, feeling a pang as the fangs slid from the perfect flesh.  Panting, he stared at Clark.

The Kryptonian's eyes were closed;  they opened slowly, looking dazed and disappointed.  "Why did you stop?" Clark whispered.  He reached up to try and tug Bruce's head back down to his neck, his movements clumsy and languid.  "Don't stop.  You don't have to stop.  Please.  I want you to...keep doing that.  Take more."

"I think...I think we've had enough," Bruce whispered.  He felt warm, sleepy, replete.  He felt alive.

"Oh," Clark said, his voice regretful.  "Are you...feeling better?  Did that help?"

Bruce would have laughed if he hadn't been so contentedly drowsy.  "Only you...only you would ask the vampire who just bit you that."  His head was drooping to rest on Clark's chest, he couldn't hold it up, couldn't keep his eyes open.  He was so warm, so safe.

"But are you okay?"  Clark's voice persisted.

"I'm fine, Clark," he managed, tripping over words as his mind slowed down.  "I'm more than fine.  Thank you."

He was asleep before he could hear Clark's quiet "My pleasure," in return.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Bruce discuss their relationship and prepare to face down Bruce's sire.

Clark Kent woke slowly, for a moment unsure where exactly he was.  He'd been dreaming of Bruce again, a long, slow dream of bliss in which he'd held the other man close and let him take what he needed, and the giving had been ecstasy beyond belief...

Beside him, someone made a low murmuring sound in their sleep, and Clark woke up more fully.  His limbs felt heavy, hard to move.  He was exhausted, and his neck ached very slightly. 

He also felt wonderful, filled with a contented, sated well-being that transcended his physical weariness.

He propped himself carefully on one arm and looked over at his companion.  Bruce Wayne was still asleep, a small smile on his face.  His skin was glowing with health, vigor, life;  he looked more vital and more beautiful than Clark had ever seen him.  He stirred a bit, then stretched in his sleep, a long, lazy exaltation of limbs, and Clark could _feel_ the new power in those strong muscles, coiled and ready.  He was still smiling, a tiny, satisfied smile that made Clark's entire body prickle.  Then his eyes opened slowly, blinking, and fixed on Clark.

The smile fell away and was replaced by concern;  Bruce sat up quickly.  "How are you feeling?"

Clark reached up and touched the pleasant ache on his neck.  "Tired," he admitted, smiling.  
   
"I may have...overindulged a bit," Bruce said.  He reached out and touched his fingers lightly to Clark's neck and Clark tried not to shiver.  "I don't think I'll needso much in the future."

"The sun should restore me," Clark said.  "How long do you think it will be until you need to feed again?"

"It shouldn't be that often," Bruce said.  "If I over-exert myself I might need to do it more frequently, but I suspect it will usually be once every two weeks or so."

"Ah," Clark said.  "That rarely."

"I..."  Bruce was looking at him oddly.  "I could probably feed more often, but I don't think I'd have to."

"Mm," Clark said, trying to sound casual.  "Well.  I wouldn't want you to grow weak."

There was a flicker of motion, and suddenly Bruce was straddling him, gazing down at him.  Clark realized with an odd shock that with his vampiric powers, and with Clark in his weakened condition, Bruce might well be stronger than him. 

The thought didn't seem to alarm him as much as it should.

"It didn't seem to hurt you as much as I'd expected," Bruce said, looking down at him.

Clark remembered the bliss of dazed pleasure, like an orgasm with no climax, no end.  "It didn't hurt," he said.  Had the other man noticed his sexual arousal during the feeding?  Clark couldn't remember much of it beyond his frantic rapture.  "I think I could bear doing it more often than every two weeks."

For a moment, the sleepy, satisfied smile was back on Bruce's face.  He leaned down and touched his lips to Clark's neck, very lightly.  Clark hissed, but the sound became a moan partway through.  He was tired, weak, drained--and he wanted it more than anything.  "Go get some sun, Clark," Bruce murmured.  "I'm going to face Fiorella tonight, and I'll need your help."  His hands suddenly encircled Clark's wrists, pinning them above his head.  "And in your condition, any vampire could probably simply hold you down and drink their fill of you, no matter how you might struggle."  Clark twisted against the warm hands, but couldn't budge.  "You'd be quite helpless, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Clark said, hearing the faint whimper in his voice and cursing himself.  The hands released him and Bruce sprang from the bed, casting him an elliptical glance.  Clark rose from the bed, heading for the door, then paused.  "Bruce," he said, "What are we?"

"What do you mean?"

"I...I don't know," Clark said.

"We're a damned soul and a Kryptonian, bound together for all eternity by thirst and need," Bruce said, his voice incongruously light as he opened his closet.

"We're...friends?"

"Best friends forever, apparently."

"I'm serious."

Bruce closed the closet door with perhaps more force than was necessary.  "Clark," he said, "If you don't know what we are to each other--what you are to me--you haven't been paying attention."  He walked back to Clark and cupped his face with a hand, infinitely gentle.  "Get some sun.  You'll need all the power you can get tonight.  And make sure to wear the cross."

**: : :**

****The final remnants of the sunset were fading into a glowering purple as Superman came out of the sky to land next to the gargoyle Bruce was waiting on.  "You're looking well," Bruce noted.

Clark stretched.  "A day in the sun and I'm as good as new.  I could probably do it all over again tonight."  There was a faint note of hopefulness in his voice that Bruce tried not to hear too clearly.  It had been so good--too good.  He couldn't get in the habit of biting Clark every night just because Clark didn't seem to mind. 

"That shouldn't be necessary," he said before he could dwell on the idea of doing _that_ again.  If he thought about it too much he'd be too busy seducing Clark into removing that cross and baring his throat to deal with Fiorella. 

"You're looking good as well," Clark said, his voice appreciative.  "Not going as Batman?"

"I don't want Fiorella or anyone else to know Batman is connected with Bruce Wayne.  I should be able to fight them using just my vampiric powers and forgoing the gadgets."  He had picked out a training outfit, something severe and sleek in black.  That it made him look, as Dick had noted once, "alarmingly sexy," had nothing whatsoever to do with that choice.  Nothing at all, he reminded himself, feeling Clark's eyes on him.  He raised his hands above his head and stretched, cat-like, feeling the leashed power humming in his limbs.  Power borrowed from the man at his side, taken from his blood.

Somehow knowing that the warmth and vitality he felt was freely given by Clark only made it more satisfying, more pleasurable.  He should hate the fact that his existence was dependent on Clark's, but somehow...it felt right.  It felt good.

Almost as good as Clark's admiring look.

"As long as you're wearing that cross, she can't bite you," he said.  "That gives us a major advantage.  She can still attack you, but it will weaken her to get too close to you."  He started to make his way to the graveyard, leaping lightly from rooftop to rooftop, Superman flying by his side.  He braced himself as he crossed into the moonlight, then almost lost his footing in surprise.  It didn't hurt as much as it had last time. 

Last time, before he had drunk of Kryptonian blood.

Could it be that Clark's blood could fortify him against the light of the sun?

Whatever the reason, it was a distinct advantage that he might not be feeling as much pain as Fiorella when they met.

"I don't like waiting," Clark grumbled as they reached the graveyard.  "I should face her by your side."

"You're my ace in the hole," Bruce said.  "If I can intimidate her into retreating, that's good.  Gives us time to prepare more before facing her again."  He paused and looked at Superman.  "Clark.  I need to know.  When the time comes, will you--"

"--Be willing to use lethal force?"  Clark's jaw tightened.  "You were right, earlier--my code doesn't apply to the undead.  I've ended their existence in the past, and I'll be willing to do it again tonight."  His mouth curved in a smile that wasn't entirely a pleasant thing to see.

Bruce nodded.  Then he moved forward into the graveyard, bathed in light from the full moon glowing above it.

He made his way between the marble stones, their shadows dark and clear-cut in the light of the moon.  Intuition drew him to his own parents' grave, where a dark shadow sat atop the monument.  Fiorella perched next to the trumpet-blowing angel, one arm flung around it in perverse familiarity.  She was wearing a black cloak of some silky material that trembled in the breeze, her silvery-golden hair touched with moonlight, her eyes deep.  "Brucie," she said sweetly.  "I was afraid I was going to have to come fetch you."  Her gaze raked up and down him.  "I see you've fed, my dear child.  At last you know the delight of it, the joy of power in sweet, fresh blood.  Was it good, my dear?"

Her words elicited a flash of memory, razor-sharp:  Clark's thoat under his teeth, the aching, throbbing pleasure of it.  "Oh yes," he said, hearing the hot, velvety yearning in his voice.

"You'll never know rest until you drink again," she said.  "You'll want it again and again."

"Again and again," he agreed, feeling Clark's presence nearby, listening.  "Forever."

She held out a hand, smiling.  "You're one of us now."

He matched her smile.  "Oh, I think not."  Baffled disbelief flashed across her face as he continued.  "I'll never serve you willingly, Fiorella.  I'd tell you to go to hell, but that would seem a bit redundant, wouldn't it?"

She stared.  Then she hissed, a terrifying sound in the silence of the cemetery.  Bruce dropped into a fighting stance, hoping she would retreat, give him more time to learn the full extent of his powers...

Fiorella stood.  Her cloak unfurled from around the statue, lifting up into the night:  great black wings, leather and sinew.  "I was afraid you would say that, dear," said the vampire.  "So I brought some of your brothers and sisters to talk sense into you."

From all around the graveyard, a sudden rustling of wings.  A dozen dark shapes rose from the shadows, eyes glinting, fangs bared and curving in the moonlight.

Fiorella pointed a pale, imperious finger at Bruce.  "Destroy him." 

**: : :**

Superman surged forward as the first of the vampires lunged at Bruce, heat vision cutting a swath in front of him.  The vampire shrieked and fell from the sky, one wing a mass of flames.  Clark had a brief glimpse of Bruce dodging, leaping lightly from gravestone to gravestone, and then the flock of vampires wheeled into the sky to regroup, Fiorella crying orders. 

Clark followed them into the sky, leaving Bruce on the ground below, honing in on the golden-haired vampire.  Other winged shapes clutched at him, their nails tearing cloth, leaving trails of pain behind, but they fell away quickly, unable to bear the agony of the holy symbol around his neck.  He intercepted another vampire preparing to plunge down at Bruce, sending it careening off course and into the ground with a sickening crunch. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bruce jump from a gravestone onto the back of a vampire wheeling by, saw him produce a sharp wooden stake and drive it home.  Bruce jumped clear of the collapsing vampire, landing on the moonlit grass with inhuman lightness.  Clark saw him look up, saw his eyes widen.  He followed the gaze to see Fiorella casting a jagged piece of stone torn from a statue at him. 

He went straight at her, not even bothering to dodge the bit of stone, letting it shatter on his invulnerable skin.  Too late he realized the goal hadn't been to hurt him, as he felt the stone spear catch on the chain around his neck, felt the links give way.

The cross fell downward to the ground far beneath.

He didn't even have time to react before they were on him in a rush of dark wings.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Bruce deal with Fiorella--and their growing relationship.

When the first teeth tore through his skin, Clark screamed.  He couldn't help it.  This was the agony Bruce had spoken of, the anguished helplessness.  There was a deafening tumult of wings around him, and he struck out blindly as another set of fangs fastened on his arm, cold as vacuum, sending splinters of pain lancing through him.

There was a cry, sharp as a hawk's, and a rushing maelstrom of air around him.  The flock of vampires erupted in shrieks and they fell away, leaving only one pair of arms around him, one pair of dark wings, their silken rustling a shield between him and pain.

He looked up to see Bruce's face above him, moonlight etching the lines of his face and limning the outstretched wings in silver.  "I didn't know you could do that," Clark managed as the vampires wheeled about, regrouping.

A small smile.  "I didn't either."

The vampires came back at them, but this time they were both in the air, wheeling in synchronicity, heat vision and sheer inhuman strength devastating their opponents.  Three more vampires fell and their ranks wavered and broke, a few scattering to safety.  Soon only Fiorella remained, her eyes mad with hatred.  She swooped at them, screaming, all strategy abandoned for simple feral rage.

Her nails raked across Clark's chest, shearing through alien cloth like it was gauze, leaving long lines of bright pain behind.  But her final assault had left her open, and Bruce lunged forward with his stake at exactly the same moment Superman wheeled to lance heat at her.

She was ash before she hit the ground.

Clark stared about for other threats, but there were none.  The adrenaline rush dropped off with sickening suddenness, and he found himself floating in midair, gasping for breath.

A rustling noise and Bruce was hovering in front of him, wings fanning the air like dark sails.  He gathered Clark into his arms, supporting him, both of them supporting the other, moonlight around them in a silver flood.  The huge black wings closed around the two of them, enfolding them in shivering silk, closing them off from the world.

Clark pulled him close and let him rest against him.  "Oh," Bruce said softly.  "You're hurt.  You're..." He fell silent, and a moment later Clark could feel a delicate touch on his neck;  Bruce's lips and tongue licking gently at him.  "How dare they."  Bruce's voice was low and fierce.  "How _dare_ they touch you," and Clark shuddered all over. 

"Don't be afraid," said Bruce against his neck.  "I'm not going to--"

"I'm not afraid," Clark interrupted him.

Bruce raised his head and met his eyes, and Clark saw longing there.  And beneath that, shame.  Without thinking, hoping only to wipe away that shame, he leaned forward to kiss the other man.

The kiss was hot and metallic with the taste of Clark's blood, which somehow only seemed to inflame Clark further.  He groaned into Bruce's mouth, tongue exploring sweet slick heat, running along sharp teeth with wild abandon.  He pushed his lower lip against the fangs that curved against them with voluptuous intensity, as if daring them to break the skin, and Bruce gasped, his wings snapping open and back, shuddering wildly against the sky.

The kiss ended slowly;  each time one of them started to pull away the other would lean in to taste some more and they'd be lost again in the long, slow pleasure, the wonder of it.  But at some point Clark found himself staring breathlessly into Bruce's eyes, dark with desire.

"Do you know what we are to each other now?" Bruce whispered.

"Yes," Clark said.  "Yes, I think I do."

Bruce pulled him close, hip against hip in a frisson of lust.  "Let me take you home.  Let me show you what you are to me tonight.  Let me love you." 

If Clark had wings they would have been thrown open against the sky in turn, a quivering arc of rapture.  "Yes."

**: : :**

****Bruce shivered as Clark eased his shirt off him, torn to ribbons where the wings had sprung forth, born of his desperation and fear.  "Where did they go?" Clark asked as he traced his shoulderblades.

"Don't know," Bruce managed through the passion blurring his thoughts.  "Think about it later.  Not now."  Clark's uniform was so tattered that it came off in pieces, easily, revealing skin still marked with long welts, scarlet against the ivory.  "Not now."

"Oh," Clark groaned as Bruce traced his hands down the beautiful, marred body.  "Oh yes."  The tights were peeled off and Bruce gave up on getting the rest of the ragged uniform off, entranced by what his efforts had revealed.  Clark's cock hardened further as he stared, and the Kryptonian twisted his hips in a motion as wanton as it seemed to be unconscious.  "Want," Clark gasped, eyes heavy-lidded, almost unseeing.  "Want you so much."

"You'll have me," Bruce promised, stripping out of his clothes in turn, lust turning his hands clumsy as Clark watched, making small whimpering sounds at each inch of bare skin revealed. 

Clark was totally relaxed, trusting as always, groaning with a luxurious pleasure as Bruce slipped slick fingers into hot tightness.  "I'm ready now, Bruce, _please_ ," he stammered.

Bruce inhaled slowly, deeply, feeling his blood--Clark's blood--pounding in him, his whole body throbbing in arousal, demanding.  "I want our first time to be good," he said.  "We're going to be doing this for all eternity together, but we'll only get to do it the first time once."

"Eternity," Clark said, and there was something in his voice that thrilled Bruce to his core, some infinite promise.  No fear in his voice, only joy and desire.  "Forever."

Bruce was slow, gentle--as slow and gentle as he could manage when his whole body felt like it was blazing with desire.  Clark hissed sharply, once, as Bruce entered him, then subsided, waiting.  Pleasure was a potential in him that Bruce could _feel_ , and as he moved forward--slowly and then more surely--Clark's face moved from expectant to rapturous, suffused with delight.  A low, stuttering moan broke from his lips and he moved against Bruce, rolling his hips with a sensual ease that left Bruce gasping.  His climax was shockingly close;  he paused to try and slow the pace down a bit, a difficult prospect when his body was begging for release, yearning to plunge deep and hard...

Wait.  Wait.  There would be time for wildness later.  For now, he wanted to watch the play of joy and lust on his lover's face.

Clark's head was thrown back, his lips parted and eyes closed.  "Oh.  Oh.  Please," he murmured.  "Please." 

When he didn't continue the plea, Bruce answered, "Anything, Clark.  Anything you want.  Name it and it's yours."

"I want..."  Clark's voice trailed off and Bruce pushed against him, a little more sharply than before;  Clark gasped, lost in pleasure.  "I want.  Your mouth.  Your teeth."  He rolled his head against the pillow, baring his throat more.  "In me."

Bruce felt a tremor pierce him;  he stopped moving and bit his lip, a tiny sound escaping him before he could stop it.  "You don't...you don't mean that," he whispered.

Clark's eyes opened slightly, sleepy and heavy.  "I do.  I want to feel it again.  It was so good, Bruce, I want to feel it while we're doing...this--"  Another roll of his hips that left Bruce clinging to sanity.  "I want to come while you're doing it, come with your mouth on me--sucking--Oh God--" The roll become a shuddering buck, " _Please_ , Bruce.  Don't make me beg you more."  His voice went small and yearning.  "I can beg more.  Anything you want.  Just don't torment me any longer."

The satiny skin of Clark's neck was under his lips although he didn't remember leaning forward;  he felt the rushing of Clark's blood under the skin.

As he pushed into Clark's body again, a long, slow motion, he bit down.

Clark made a low murmuring sound of pure delight as the life surged between them.  Bruce had thought he couldn't possibly get harder, more aroused, but the tumult of power, pure and bright as sunlight, made every fiber of his being sing with lust. 

Clark's pulse throbbed between them, and Bruce felt the echo of it all through his body, replacing the beat he had lost with his mortality.  He found his thrusts matching the rhythm, their shared heartbeat, their shared life.  It was slow at first, languid, sultry.  But it quickened gradually, almost imperceptibly, an acceleration of inexorable delight.  Harder.  Faster.  Deeper, until Clark was shuddering beneath him, gasping of angels and demons with delirious abandon, begging for Bruce to take all of him, everything, all of him.

Bruce ignored his feverish pleas, although the taste of wild surrender made him giddy;  he wasn't half-mad with thirst this time, and he controlled the increasingly staccato tempo of Clark's pulse as it mounted higher, and then higher still.  Buried deep in his love's body twice over, he let the rush of their bliss cascade onward, until the bond between them fluttered frantically and Clark cried something wordless and lost, the desperate beat of his blood driving Bruce into his own climax.

What seemed like an eternity of pleasure ebbed away slowly, leaving them limp and sated in each others' arms.  As the final spasms died away, Bruce felt his fangs retract gently, sliding from Clark's skin.  He pulled back to eye his lover with some worry, but Clark was smiling at him, his face less pale and wan than last time.

"I told you you could take more," Clark said, shifting his body slightly, drawing a small groan of mixed protest and pleasure from Bruce.

"Even a soulless creature of the night has his limits," Bruce said.  Extricating himself with some reluctance, he tugged the black silk sheets up around them and curled up against Clark, savoring the warmth suffusing his body, a palpable afterglow.

"Don't say that," murmured Clark.

"What, that I have limits?  I thought you always wanted me to--"

"No," Clark interrupted firmly. "That you're soulless. You're the same heroic, noble person you always were, the same person I've always loved. Your soul isn't lost."

Bruce put a hand flat on Clark's chest, feeling the low thrum of his heart, sure and steady. "Not lost," he agreed, closing his eyes, listening, "Not lost at all." 


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce asks his family to come home, informs the JLA of two changes in his status...and practices flying with his lover.

Dick Grayson was curled up on his bed, reading, when he heard the Manor's dinner bell chime.  He put down the book and stretched, hearing the familiar sounds of the Manor around him, the small noises of daily life:  Tim rummaging in his closet, Bruce's footsteps down the stairs.

It was good to be home.

At the dinner table, Clark Kent sat next to Bruce.  He'd been a very frequent dinner guest in the week since Dick, Tim, and Alfred had come home.  "Thank you, Alfred," he said as the butler put a plate of salad in front of him.

"And for you, Master Bruce," Alfred said, putting a much sparser dish in front of the other man.  Everyone in the room knew that Bruce would merely pick at it a little, just enough to be polite;  just as they knew the heavy velvet drapes of the dining room would stay tightly closed against the rays of the setting sun.

Bruce hadn't said anything, had merely called each of them and apologized--briefly--for his behavior, asked them to come back.  Clark had gone to each of them individually and explained how much Bruce missed them and how deep his regret was, but in truth none of them had needed the longer explanation.

They knew Bruce.

Dick didn't need explanations.  He wasn't the World's Greatest Detective, but he was probably in the top ten, and he was capable of putting facts together:  the drapes, the silverware replaced with stainless steel, his mentor's lack of appetite.  He didn't ask questions;  if it weren't safe Bruce would never have asked them back, and Clark would never have allowed it.

Tim was probably in the top five, so he certainly didn't need an explanation.

And Alfred was... _Alfred._

Besides, you didn't need to be in the top _one hundred_ detectives in the world to see the light in Bruce's eyes when he looked at Clark, or the way the Kryptonian stayed almost close enough to touch Bruce at all times.  It didn't take detective skills of any sort to see how happy they both were.

"Pass the salt, Dick," Tim said, and Dick lobbed it across the table in a high arc, prompting an annoyed _tsk_ ing sound from Alfred and a grin from Tim after he snagged it out of the air.  "Hope you can stay a while before you go back to New York."

"I think I can spend the weekend," Dick said.  "If Bruce doesn't mind."

"Hm?"  Bruce looked up from his rapt contemplation of Clark to raise an eyebrow.  "Only if you help out on patrol.  No slackers allowed in the Manor."

"Yes sir," Dick said, trying to hide his smile.

"Chicken piccata, awesome," Tim said with relish as Alfred put a plate in front of him.  "I had to do all the cooking when I was at the Tower, and I think I was dreaming of your meals by the end, Alfred."

"Why'd you have to do all the cooking?"  Dick asked.

"Are you kidding me?"  Tim said around a mouthful of chicken.  "Cassie and Eddie?  The kitchen wouldn't be standing at the end of it.  Though Jaime's not bad, I have to admit.  Anyway, none of it held a candle to this."

Bruce had mostly just moved his small serving around.  "It's delicious," he said.  "I guess I'm just not that hungry."  He lifted his wine glass and sipped at it very lightly.  "But I'll confess to being a bit thirsty," he added, eyes locked on Clark.

Clark almost dropped his fork.  "That's--uh--I mean--"

"Ah, get a room," Tim said cheerfully, and Dick almost burst out laughing.  There weren't many families where the addition of a vampire and his lover would be able to go without much comment.

But then, they were an unusual family.

**: : :**

"...we'll add the information to your dossier, then.  Thank you for informing us."

"Thank him for--for--"  Diana stared at J'onn J'onnz, then across the table at Superman and Batman.  "He's just informed you he's a _vampire_ , and your response is to _modify the information in his file_?"

J'onn looked entirely unperturbed.  "If he had malicious intent, Diana, I hardly think he'd be informing us of his...change in status."

Batman's shoulders were tense, but otherwise didn't show any reaction.  "The files should reflect my change in powers so the rest of my teammates will know what they can expect from me.  Of course, if that information remains top-security and unknown to the public it should give us some advantages."

"Indeed."  J'onn looked thoughtful.  "So which of the traditional vampiric powers have you acquired?"

"Enhanced strength and resiliency, some level of mind influence, flight."

"You can turn into mist too, right?" Superman added.

Batman looked slightly uncomfortable.  "Yes.  Of course, I have some of the traditional weaknesses as well--holy symbols and sunlight cause me pain, I don't show up in mirrors--"

"That could be an advantage when dealing with the Mirror Master," J'onn noted, entering data into the computer pad he was holding.

"And what about the most key disadvantage?" Diana felt compelled to ask.  "The whole 'thirst for human blood' drawback?"

"That's under control," Superman said firmly.  Diana stared at him, but he didn't explain further.  "Will you find it impossible to work with Batman now, Diana?"

Diana grimaced, looking at Batman.  "Amazons have had dealings with the Children of Lamia, the Succubi, and our memories are long.  But if anyone in this universe were strong enough to keep control..."  She inclined her head to Bruce briefly.  "I'm willing to try, with you vouching for him.  But I'll warn both of you, not everyone on the League will take it as well."

"If peoples' reactions are a severe problem, I'll simply step down," Batman said levelly.  "Go back to being a more auxiliary member, or be entirely unconnected.  But you will not have to worry about my thirst.  I promise."

"I'll confess this is not what I thought you were going to announce," J'onn said mildly, and Clark and Bruce exchanged glances.

"That obvious, huh?" said Superman, and the Martian Manhunter lifted one shoulder in a small shrug.  Superman leaned forward, looking more nervous than when Bruce had started talking about his affliction.  "Bruce and I...well...we'd like it entered in the League records that we're...involved."

Diana struggled to keep her fresh shock from showing as J'onn said, "You know we don't require records on liaisons and relationships--"

"--Call it a marriage, then," Bruce said in a tone that brooked no contradiction.  This time all three stared at him.  "It's quite serious," he went on, "And absolutely permanent.  And I would like to have it recorded as such."

J'onn tapped at the pad a moment more as Diana watched Clark turn various shades of pink.  "You are officially entered in the records of the League as a married couple now," he said after a moment. 

"Thank you," said Bruce, rising.  "I appreciate you both taking the time to talk with me.  I'm going to review the tapes of that battle against the Parademon incursion last week," he added, turning to Superman.  "I was hoping you could give me some insight into that new armor design they were wearing.  Was it reinforced somehow?"

The two of them left the room as Superman started to describe the enhanced armor.  Diana looked after them as they went.  They hadn't touched each other once in the whole time they'd been here, but she could see it now, the way every movement seemed to curve toward each other, the energy humming between them.

"I'm glad Kal will not be alone," J'onn said beside her, his voice low.

"I'm glad Bruce won't be," said Diana, and realized she meant it.

**: : :**

****Clark snatched Bruce out of the sky, black wings flailing as Bruce struggled to get an advantage.  "You don't have to deal with _these_ ," Bruce declared irritably as Clark held him.  "They're unwieldy."

"You'll get used to them," Clark said.  "Besides, I like them."  He ran one hand down a shining black wing, wandering across the spaces between the delicate ribbing, and Bruce shuddered. 

"I can feel that," Bruce said rather faintly.  "It's...uh."

"Have I found a new erogenous zone?" Clark said, stretching to kiss the graceful curve of the top of a wing, and Bruce made a sound that was incoherent but largely affirmative.  "Mm, I want to make love to you with these all around us, touching me, you on your back like a pinioned bird, fluttering--"

With a muffled moan, Bruce broke away from his grasp and soared upward until he was well above Clark in the sky.  He paused, hovering, then stooped like a bird of prey, crashing into Clark hard enough to leave them both breathless and send them careening.  "Don't forget," Bruce breathed as the world righted around them again, "Who is the predator and who is the prey in this relationship."  He bent to nip at Clark's neck lightly, not breaking the skin, and the world swam around Clark at the sensation, the promise of ecstasy.

"My hawk," he agreed, his head flung back.  "My falcon.  Hunter of my soul."

Bruce murmured against his skin, half-laughing, and for a time they simply hung in the air, enjoying the embrace. 

"You surprised me," Clark said, looking up at the sky.

"With the marriage thing?"

"Yes."

"It seemed the easiest way to propose to you.  A _fait accompli_.  Less chance you'd say no."

"As if I ever would," Clark said, a laugh catching in his throat. 

"If you wanted a more...real marriage, I could do that," Bruce said, his voice oddly apologetic.  "I will stand in front of a cross, in the sunlight, and pledge myself to you.  As long as you were by my side, I think I could."

"No," Clark said.  "I don't need that.  This is real."  He touched his lips to glossy black hair.  "Thank you."

"For binding you to me in an unholy covenant of blood?"  Bruce's voice was light, but Clark heard pain under it.  He shifted to meet Bruce's eyes.

"A marriage of souls, Bruce.  My soul is yours and yours mine, and I don't know where one ends and the other begins.  I don't care.  Two forms, two faces, one soul.  Forever."

"Forever," Bruce echoed, his eyes alight, almost glowing.  Predatory.  Clark felt shivers start somewhere within him, heady with anticipation, a sweet and feverish tremor.  "Yes."

Dark wings snapped shut, furling around him like a wave of silk.  Folded in shadows, wrapped in delight, Clark felt cool ivory touch his throat. 

"Forever," Bruce whispered against his skin.


	10. Thirst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Batman becomes the target of a pair of vampire hunters, Superman must save his friend from a fate worse than undeath.

The moon brushed pain across Batman's skin, but the sun burned within him, warming and shielding him. He leapt effortlessly from building to building, watching over his city, its lattices of suffering and hope drawing him like ley-lines across the rooftops. He was a shadow among shadows, a hunter of predators prowling the night, and an elemental fear hung around him like a cloak.

When the Batman was hunting, the hearts of the vicious beat faster and their wary eyes scanned the night. They were prey, and they knew it in their bones and their blood.

He landed in front of a mugger, knocked the gun out of his hand with a casual slap. The mugger's eyes were filled with blank terror, like a rabbit faced with a hungry wolf. Terror--and something more, a strange fascination. Batman laughed once, a harsh bark, and the mugger shuddered. His victim scrambled away, but he didn't even look at her, his eyes locked on Batman. Bruce slapped restraints on the unresisting man and left him for the police.

As Batman swooped away, the mugger slowly fell to his knees.

Bruce couldn't help the curl of contempt that touched his mouth. They feared him with a visceral, instinctive fear reserved for predators, but the Dark Knight would never sully himself with such small game. No, his prey was nothing so crude or vile. For him, it was only--

There was a rustle of cloth and the scent of sunlight to his left.

Batman swung around and seized the other man from behind, pulling his arms behind his back. "I've told you not to come to Gotham when I'm hunting," he whispered against Superman's neck. He'd told Clark so many times. It never seemed to make a difference.

Clark was relaxed in his grip, but Bruce could feel his heart pounding, feel the carotid artery fluttering under his lips. _Prey. Beloved. Prey._ "I thought you might be hungry," Clark said as casually as if he had brought sandwiches.

Bruce laughed low in his throat and licked Clark's neck; Superman stiffened in his grip and hissed a sharp breath. "I'm fine," Bruce said. "The hunger keeps me on my toes when I'm patrolling."

"It's been five days," said Clark. He still had made no move to break Batman's hold on him. "You need to stay strong. What if Fiorella's sire comes looking for us, for vengeance?"

"We don't even know that Fiorella's sire still lives. I'm more worried about the vampire hunters, myself. My cursed grandsire--if he hasn't already been staked--I can simply lay to rest. Vampire hunters are living humans and thus a tougher problem. Besides," Bruce added lightly, "You know I can easily go a week without feeding." Clark smelled so good. Like the finest wine and the sweetest cinnamon, with a hint of musk. No touch of fear at all to taint the dizzying scent. Bruce breathed him in, savoring him.

"Bruce," Clark said, his voice very low. "After so many months, must you still make me beg for it?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "I can't just...indulge myself," he said. "No matter how much--"

"--No matter how often you see me heal under the next day's sun? No matter how much I tell you it _feels good_? No matter how much I want to be consumed, to pour myself out for you--" Clark shifted and pulled his hands out of Batman's grip easily, raising them to clasp behind the cowled head and pull it closer to his neck. "--To be pierced by your darkness, sunlight shot through with the tenderest of shadows, eclipsed by the darkest of moons--"

Bruce kept his eyes closed, but couldn't so easily block out the sound of Clark's voice, almost hypnotically low, cajoling and coaxing. His teeth dug into his lower lip and he opened his mouth slightly, breathing in the perfume of Clark's skin, the crimson heat of it. He didn't need to feed, he could go longer without the sweet rush of light and blood, filling him almost beyond bearing with burning weight. He didn't need it.

Oh, how he wanted it.

"Just a sip," Clark said low in his throat, his voice as rich as honey. "Just one sip, love. Let me--"

He broke off into a shuddering sigh as Bruce's fangs slid into his neck, and Bruce lost himself in the golden light of the feeding, the bliss of union filling the spaces where his soul should be.

One sip of paradise.

**: : :**

From the shadowed roof of Gotham Cathedral, Josiah, Hunter of the Fifth Circle of the Rosy Cross, watched in horror as the dark figure bent his head to the Kryptonian's neck. Superman shivered against his assailant, clearly lost in some ensorcelled ecstasy. Two of the most powerful beings in the world, locked in a bloody and unholy embrace. The little shielding spell hiding him from detection seemed a very small thing to stand between him and such a twisted partnership.

Beside him, his companion stirred and made a sound of disgust deep in his throat. Mordecai, Elder of the Rosy Cross, was glaring at the pair as if he could cast them into perdition with his mere gaze, his pale blue eyes filled with fervent light. "It is as the augury said, Brother Josiah. It is up to you and I--and the power of the Lord--to rid the world of this blight."

Josiah was unsure why the augury had indicated the eldest of the Brotherhood and the youngest should take on this task. Certainly it was a challenge that called for the powers of Mordecai, who hadn't gone on a Hunt in recent memory but was a legend among hunters. But why Josiah? He shook his head to banish his doubts. It wasn't his place to question the augury, after all.

"Come," said Mordecai. "We must plan." He moved into the shadows and was gone.

Josiah looked back once at the vampire and his thrall. The Dark Knight had finished feeding. As Josiah watched, he pressed a kiss to Superman's neck. Superman turned and smiled at him.

It was strange, Josiah thought as he followed Mordecai, how sometimes perversion could so closely resemble love.

**: : :**

**One week later**

Batman landed lightly on a gargoyle's head, then took up a position on a second nearby. The view would be better from the third gargoyle to the west, but he could no longer use that vantage point.

That gargoyle had a cross clutched in its hands.

Batman crouched on his perch, feeling the faint prickle of pain from the nearby holy symbol crawl along his nerves. He could find a place further away from the epicenter of the pain, but some nights he preferred to stay close enough to feel the echo of holy judgment burning him. Nights like this, when the hunger was bad and he yearned for Clark's blood with an intensity that damned him more conclusively than the holy cross. Batman had fought alongside angels and met devils; it would be the height of folly to insist that damnation was not empirically real in a world where holy water burned him like acid.

Very well then: he was damned and it was no use dwelling on it. If he would burn in hell eternally for a curse he never chose, all the more reason to make a difference here and now.

He readied another grapple, prepared to leap into the abyss once more.

There was a faint scuff of a footstep behind him, a sense of presence that had not been there a moment ago. Batman whirled--

\--And pain blossomed across his body, hellfire-bright and brimstone-strong. A voice murmured something in Latin, and all of his muscles locked up, immobile. He was faintly thankful for that when gloved hands bound wet ropes around him, searing through his costume like tissue paper. Ropes soaked in holy water.

The spell kept him from screaming until the pain drove him into merciful unconsciousness.

**: : :**

He dreamt of blood and fire.

As he clawed his way up from the feverish visions, he pried his eyes open enough to see industrial-gray walls, a steel door traced with arcane symbols which made his head swim more to look at them. Along one wall was a window looking into another room, some kind of observation room.

There were lines along his body, pain soaking through cloth as it were nothing. The ropes. Holy water.

His throat was dry, the thirst parching it.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said a familiar voice.

"I wish to see his face," said another voice, one he didn't know. There was a harsh and zealous edge to it.

"That cowl's got more security on it than Fort Knox," said the first voice. "Try it and you'll regret it."

Batman blinked watering eyes and focused on the pair. "Luthor," he rasped, glaring up. "Your arrogance knows no bounds. What do you--"

"--He knows your secret, foul one," spat the man next to him. He was dressed in severe black, his long white hair falling around his shoulders. His pale blue eyes shone with fanatical hatred.

"My secret," Bruce echoed, trying to buy time. A hammer and wooden stakes hung from the man's belt; it was no leap of intuition to guess what secret he meant.

"He knows of your corrupt soul, and your demonic desires, and your unhallowed pact with the Kryptonian. He knows of your damnation."

Lex Luthor smiled faintly and waved a hand in dismissal. "I care nothing of your 'damnation.' Souls are metaphysical hogwash. Now, your hypothetical _power_...that I am quite interested in indeed." His smile sharpened and grew feral. "Vampirism combined with the consumption of Kryptonian powers--an impressive combination. I really must commend you on it."

"Don't be ridiculous, Luthor. I'm no vampire."

"Mordecai here claims otherwise," Luthor said. "And his arguments were...quite persuasive." Mordecai smiled, thin and full of venom. "Persuasive enough that I decided to bring you here for some...testing."

Batman gritted his teeth. "Then stop talking and get to it. You'll find out soon enough that--"

"Your fate will not be so swift, unclean one," said Mordecai. "Luthor desires that you not merely give up your secrets to him, but that you do so freely, that you come to serve him as your master."

He couldn't help it; despite the pain in his limbs and the thirst abrading his throat, Bruce laughed. "Luthor knows I will never do such a thing."

Mordecai's hands clenched and his narrow shoulders stooped like a vulture's. "All of your foul breed are ruled by your base desires, monster. When you are broken, when your haughtiness is brought low and realize you are but as dirt, then you shall serve him who gives you the filthy drink you crave." He turned. "Come, Luthor. Let it begin."

Luthor's smile was lazy and sadistic as he went to the door and opened it. He gestured, and a person was tossed into the room.

A young man, a stranger, his eyes confused and terrified. His brown hair was wet and he was wearing nothing but a hospital smock. He looked around the room, his eyes wild.

"A snack for you," Luthor said.

Mordecai gazed at Batman with contempt and repugnance. "You will feed when you are thirsty enough," he said. "Then shall your will be broken and your arrogant spirit humbled. Eventually you will slay this innocent. You will consume his life and revel in your own loathsomeness and serve the one who brings you food to sate your hunger, monster."

"I am not a monster," Bruce said, his voice level and cold.

The door swung shut behind his captors.

Batman closed his eyes rather than meet the eyes of the young man sharing his cell. The thirst was already so strong, so demanding.

"Mister Batman?" The man's voice was hesitant. "Is what they said true? Are you going to eat me?"

Bruce couldn't help but chuckle, although the sound rasped in his dry throat. "I am not going to eat you. They're crazy. We're going to get out of here. What is your name?"

"Fred. Fred Norris."

"How long until someone reports you're missing to the police?"

Fred snorted. "They picked me up off the street. No one notices nothing there. I don't--don't have a home. Please don't kill me."

Bruce closed his eyes with a sigh. "I'm not going to kill you, Fred," he said. He was going over the conversation, putting things together, trying to think through the burning pain of the ropes and the thirst distracting him. Clark would be wondering where he was soon, worrying about him.

There was a light touch on his arm, hesitant and non-threatening. Bruce opened his eyes to see Fred bending over him, working on the wet ropes. "I'll get you out of these, sir. They can't be comfortable." Bruce closed his eyes again and waited, trying not to smell the warmth of the man's skin, the life running through him. He imagined Clark's worried face. The taste of Clark's blood like liquid song, the soft sigh of bliss that thrilled him each time. Clark's willing gift to him, sweet with sacrifice and love.

By the time the ropes fell away he had mastered his thirst once more. Bruce gave Fred a tight-lipped smile that hid his teeth. They ached with a cold burn as he stretched his arms and shook the pain out of them. "Thank you."

Fred laughed nervously. "I figure I ain't getting out of here without your help."

Batman started to inspect the room. The wards on the door etched agony onto his nerves when he got close, and subtle patterns on the walls sapped his strength more than the thirst. There was a hole in one corner for obvious purposes.

Luthor working with a vampire hunter. Why would a vampire hunter throw in his lot with Lex Luthor? There was only one possible answer.

Mordecai wanted to have Luthor's defense when an angry Kryptonian came looking for Batman.

Batman felt unease stab through him. Magic and Kryptonite working together.

_Be careful, Clark._

**: : :**

It was raining, a heavy, soaking rain that cloaked Gotham in gloom. It would be a perfect day for Bruce to be out, no sun to pierce the clouds and harm him.

But Bruce was nowhere to be found. Clark hadn't seen him in three days. That wouldn't be unusual--Batman sometimes would disappear for days on a case--but that meant it had been over a week since he had last eaten. That was the longest since he had finally agreed to let Clark sustain him.

The gnawing sense of unease refused to leave as Clark scanned Gotham, searching each alley, every corner. Alfred and the boys hadn't seen him. What if he was hurt? What if he needed help? Superman stopped and sat on a park bench, letting the rain run off of him and pool at his feet. The steady hiss of rain sounded almost mocking. He scrubbed at his face, wiping rain from his eyes. "Where are you, Bruce?" His whisper was eaten by the sound of falling water.

He sat for a while, miserable and wet.

Then with a sudden blur of motion and no warning, he reached out into the empty air and closed his hands around someone's throat, snatching the figure from invisibility into sight again: a young man with dark skin and curly hair in a black trench coat, his eyes wide with terror. "What--you-- _you can't see me_!" he stammered, his Adam's apple moving against Clark's loose but certain grip. "My magic--"

"Magic," Superman growled. "I know the feel of it on my skin by now, enough to sense when there's a spell in effect somewhere. And your magic might have cloaked you from my sight, but you're sloppy." He glanced down at the man's feet. "You didn't think about the fact that the rain wasn't hitting the pavement where you were standing." He smiled and the man's eyes grew even wider. "Careless." He frowned. "Now, why are you here and why are you so afraid--" His eyes dropped to the man's chest and the crucifix hanging there, then lower to the stakes at his belt. His eyes went cold and he moved his hands to the man's shoulders, picking him up and shaking him slightly. " _Who are you and what do you want?_ "

The man's teeth chattered. "I'm--I'm--Josiah, vampire hunter of the fifth circle of the order of the Rosy Cross."

A splinter of cold fear lodged itself in Clark's entrails, but he kept his voice steady as he put Josiah down. "You're a little late," he said, forcing a wry tone into his voice. "If you're here looking for Fiorella Bianchi, she's already been destroyed, months ago."

"The Order is aware of that," Josiah said, dusting off his black jacket. "I'm here to deal with another vampire."

Clark hoped his face was staying friendly, open and heroic. "Great Rao, another vampire? I feared Fiorella's sire would come back for vengeance, is it--"

"--The Order has no records of Fiorella's sire," the vampire hunter snapped. "Probably long-dead. Fiorella was one of the oldest and most powerful vampires left. And so we are especially wary of any spawn she created. Like your Batman."

Clark resisted the temptation to swallow. "Batman?" he repeated incredulously. "I know he's got the whole Gothic theme going on, but that's just his schtick, you know."

Josiah didn't seem to take well to Superman's avuncular tone. "The Order's augury picked him out. He shuns sunlight, can appear and disappear at will--"

"--I hate to ruin your theory, but he's been like that as long as I've known him."

A glare. "He has you as his thrall."

This time Clark could laugh freely. "I'm not any vampire's thrall."

Josiah's eyes narrowed and he made a complicated gesture in the air between them. Magic drifted past Clark's face like cobwebs. "How do you feel about him _now_?" Josiah asked triumphantly.

"Batman's a hero who would never take a life, no matter what. He's brilliant, driven, annoying, meticulous and a bit creepy at times, but he's no human-slaying monster."

Josiah frowned. "That charm should have removed you from his power."

Clark's annoyed sigh was entirely unfeigned. "He's my friend, not my dark lord and master." He felt a glint of scarlet enter his eyes and didn't bother to restrain it. "And I'm just going to ask this once: _Where is he?_ "

Superman's sudden shift in mood seemed to take the hunter aback. "I--what?"

"He's missing. He's been missing for days. If you and your ridiculous Order have harmed him in any way because you think he's a vampire--"

"I have no idea where he is!" Josiah protested. "Mordecai said--"

"Mordecai?"

"An Elder of the Order, sent here to assist me in this Hunt. He said he had preparations to make before we could take Batman out and for me to keep an eye on you. I haven't seen him since then."

"How many days ago was that?"

Josiah frowned. "About three days."

"That's when Batman went missing."

The frown deepened. "I don't understand. Is it possible he destroyed Batman without me?"

Clark's heart twisted. _No. I would know if Bruce was...gone. Wouldn't I?_ "If he had," he said with a steadiness that surprised him, "Surely he would have told you by now."

"I suppose," Josiah said. "Though I am a very junior member of the Order."

"And junior members aren't supposed to question their elders. Or track and follow them to find out if they're doing something they shouldn't."

"No, they aren't," Josiah agreed, but there was a grim set to his jaw. "But if you don't report me to the Council, I do believe I'll try to find him."

Clark allowed himself a relieved smile. "Thank you."

For a moment, Josiah smiled back at him. Then he seemed to remember to be forbidding, and clamped down on it. "This won't let Batman off the hook, you know. He must be slain. A heroic vampire is a contradiction in terms. It is _impossible_."

Superman felt anger spark through him and managed to keep it from his expression only with an effort. "Batman is a hero, plain and simple," he said. "And a good man."

"We'll see," said Josiah, turning on his heel and fading into the rain.

**: : :**

"The thirst must be consuming you from within." Mordecai's voice was conversational. "How you must need to drink. Surely the life of one vagrant would be missed so...very...little."

"His name," said Batman, "is Frederic Norris. He won his elementary school's spelling bee when he was in sixth grade. He prefers milk chocolate to dark. His eyesight is bad, but he can't afford glasses." He held those gathered facts close to him, a shield against the devouring need to drink. This was a person, a life, unique and irreplaceable. Once extinguished it would be gone forever. His own life was a guttering candle, nearly swallowed by darkness. He curled around the tiny spark at his center and tried to ignore Mordecai's insinuating voice. "If you're so sure I'm a vampire, why don't you just stake me and get it over with?"

"Oh, but I don't want to kill you," Mordecai said. "I want you to _suffer._ I want you to burn and writhe with your thirst, lost in agony. And I want you to lose that struggle, as I know you will. I want to see you shattered, feeding like the beast you are, unable to stop, ripping this boy's throat out with your teeth to quench your thirst. I want you to live and know yourself beyond salvation." His eyes glittered. "There is no need to suffer so, vampire. Give in and slake your thirst in the warm life of another. Embrace your true nature."

Bruce's teeth ached with cold fire, his veins burning with need. Yes, a part of him whispered. They were all food to him, their existence valuable only so far as they could sustain him. Their lives were so short, a brief flicker and then gone. There could be no tragedy in ending one a moment or two early, surely. And he was so hungry, so empty, so cold.

His breath was rattling in his throat, but he didn't move. After a while, Mordecai turned and left the room, the wards parting for him like a beaded curtain. He rejoined Lex Luthor in the observation room and the two of them sat down to watch him. They spent hours watching him every day: Mordecai's gaze avid and anticipatory, Lex's sharp with mingled curiosity and avarice.

"Mister Batman?" Fred's voice came to him from far away. "Mister Batman, you don't look so good, really. Have they poisoned you or something?"

Batman turned to the wall so Fred wouldn't see his teeth, needle-sharp and avid with hunger. "Tell me..." he said. "Tell me about your favorite television show as a child."

**: : :**

Superman descended from the sky to land in front of Josiah. The vampire hunter looked several years older, grim and angry. "I found Mordecai. I didn't talk to him. Something--something is wrong." He shook his head. "I think Mordecai has gone rogue. I followed him. And I think he's working with Lex Luthor."

Superman crossed his arms to cover the chill that struck through him. "You saw Luthor?"

"I saw Mordecai entering a LexCorp research facility. The guards let him in without question."

"Lex working with a vampire hunter. That's madness. Luthor is a scientist. Working with someone sworn to slay supernatural creatures in the name of God...it's not his style."

Josiah looked annoyed. "I'm sure you understand your arch-enemy's motivations better than I do, but I'm telling you Mordecai is working with him." He sighed and rubbed his face. "I'm sorry, Superman. It's just...Mordecai is an Elder of the Circle. I can't imagine he'd strike off on his own like this."

"Then we have two mysteries of motivation," Superman said. "And there's only one way to solve both of them." Josiah was holding his crucifix nervously. "Can your little shielding trick cover two people?"

"Can't you just...you know, knock down the walls?"

"I want to know what's going on, not just break heads." He also wanted to break heads, very badly. But saving Bruce was his top priority, and he needed to understand the situation, not charge in blindly. "We're going to need some subterfuge here."

"I...I think I can cover both of us. The protection spell should hide us from sight, and from hearing as long as we're quiet. It will take a lot of concentration, though."

Superman clapped Josiah on the shoulder. "I'm sure you can do it."

Josiah looked pleased, and like he was suspicious of feeling pleased at the same time. "You're not like any vampire's thrall I've ever met."

Clark managed to keep from rolling his eyes only with great difficulty. "Not that again."

"The augury said--"

"I don't place my faith in auguries, omens, or any other superstitious nonsense," Clark snapped. "I have faith in the human heart. I have faith in my friend."

Josiah shook his head but looked grudgingly impressed. "You're a stubborn man, Superman."

"Wait until you meet Batman."

**: : :**

"Mordecai, you promised me a broken vampire by now!" Luthor's voice was querulous and angry, his face pale and his eyes almost feverish with intensity. "You said his will would be subsumed to mine and I could start experimenting on him and seeing where his powers come from."

"For the last time, Luthor," Batman grated through a throat that seemed to be filled with sand, "I _have_ no powers. This man is lying to you."

"It's been three days and he hasn't even _nibbled_. I'm a busy man, Mordecai, and I need to get to work if I'm to consider how to synthesize the process. The mental enslavement is bonus, but I'm sure I could start experimenting on him without it." His eyes narrowed and he dropped a hand to rest on the handle of a small dagger of polished green crystal he kept by his side. "Unless you've been playing me for a fool, Mordecai."

Mordecai put a hand on Luthor's shoulder. "Be still, Luthor," he murmured. Luthor shot him a sharp glance, then slowly relaxed, swaying slightly on his feet. Mordecai turned to Batman and arched a silver eyebrow in polite disbelief. "Vampire, you must be in such pain. Why prolong the agony? We both know the need will overmaster you eventually. You will feed and kill. It is what you are."

Part of Batman knew this was true, a part that raged to be turned free and rip the throats out of these smug cattle. _Kill them. Consume them. Bathe in their blood._ Another part of him held on to a memory of light and warmth. _I am Batman. I serve justice. I do not kill._ He shook his head mutely.

Mordecai stooped closer to him. "Perhaps you need...easier prey? Something not so repugnant to your oh-so-noble ideals?" His voice seemed to drip like venom. "Very well then." He reached down and seized Batman, hauling him to his feet. "Very well."

**: : :**

The guards didn't even blink as Josiah and Superman slipped by them. They moved down the halls like ghosts, searching. All the walls were liberally reinforced with lead, of course. "Wait," Clark whispered. "I hear Lex's voice." He followed the sound, Josiah close by his side, holding his crucifix.

There were two doors side by side--one closed, the other ajar. Glancing through the open door, Clark could see a room with a large window cut into one wall. And through that window--

He jolted forward into the room and heard Josiah hiss in protest as he almost left the invisible sphere of protection.

In the other room were Luthor, a young man in a hospital smock pressing as far into a corner as possible, and a man with silver hair that Superman assumed was Mordecai.

And Bruce.

Clark had to stifle a groan when he saw Bruce, lying on the floor. He was so pale, so drawn. Clark could nearly see the hunger that was eating him away, a dark shadow digging its claws into his entrails.

He could also see the stubborn set of his jaw, the repudiation in every line of his body. _Oh, my Bruce, my strong one. They could never break you._

As Clark reeled from the shock of seeing Bruce again, Mordecai reached down and seized Batman. Superman tensed himself to spring--but Mordecai was holding Bruce up, supporting him. The vampire hunter reached out and grabbed Lex Luthor's arm, pulled him close. Strangely, Luthor made no move to shake off the grip, standing still, staring at nothing.

Mordecai pushed Bruce's head until it was nearly touching Luthor's neck. His voice could be heard clearly in the other room: "Take this one instead, vampire. Think of how he has wronged you, tortured and tormented you. Surely the world will be better off without him corrupting it, do we not agree? Look at him and think of the lives he has taken. This is your judgment on him." His voice dropped slightly, became almost friendly. "How he has hurt the one you care for, your Kryptonian! You will be keeping your dear one safe, you know. No one could blame you. No one at all. Drink, lost soul, and be at peace."

Batman was shaking so hard he could barely stand, his mouth a mere breath away from Luthor's bare neck. Superman felt Josiah tense beside him, preparing to leap forward. He reached out and grabbed Josiah's arm. Josiah cast him an incredulous look. Superman shook his head. _Wait,_ he mouthed.

**: : :**

Luthor was still and quiescent, his neck vulnerable, relaxed. Bruce could see the vein pulsing slightly. He could just take a little, he told the ravening voices within, just a few drops, enough to keep going. He knew even as he thought it that it was a lie. He was too far gone, too thirsty, he wanted only to drink until he was sated. One taste and he would feed, feed until he was full and this sadistic monster was a dried husk on the ground. It would be so good, so fair...

Bruce laughed, very low in his throat, his breath brushing Luthor's skin. Luthor didn't respond in any way. "I don't think so," said Bruce. He turned to look at Mordecai. "It would be shockingly poor manners to poach on your territory, after all."

Mordecai's hand tightened on his shoulder with bruising strength, enough to break bones if Bruce were mortal. "Cursed one, foul--"

"The first clue," said Bruce as if he couldn't barely stand, as if he weren't so weak with hunger that he wanted to howl, "Was that you don't wear a crucifix. I think that's a fairly standard accessory for your kind?"

Mordecai let go of Batman and wrapped an arm around Luthor's throat, dragging him backwards.

Bruce smiled at him. "The way you talked about the thirst. You said all the right words, but you talked too much about how good it would feel to drink. You dwelt on it too long, too lovingly. And you made _Lex Luthor_ shut up with a single touch." He shook his head, meeting Mordecai's curdling stare squarely. "And then there's the way you look at me, Mordecai. The hatred, the thirst for vengeance. I know that look. That's how you look at the one who killed your child."

Mordecai bared his teeth and hissed, an inhuman sound.

The veneer of humanity cracked and peeled away, leaving only menace and feral hatred. Tossing Luthor aside like a rag doll, he raised hands crooked into talons and snarled again at Bruce.

_I never gave in,_ Bruce thought as the ancient vampire prepared to rush him, as he braced his weakened, famished body for the blow. _I never gave in. Clark._

And then the observation window shattered and Superman sailed into the room like an avenging angel to fall on Mordecai.

**: : :**

Clark's heat vision seared across Mordecai's face, but the vampire merely laughed, a sound like squirming maggots and gangrene, and backhanded him hard across the face. "I am not so delicate as my darling daughter, my sweet white flower you cut down so cruelly," he snarled, as dizzy lights sparked through Clark's vision.

Behind Clark, Josiah was chanting in Latin, his voice shaky. Light flooded the room and Mordecai's snarl became edged with pain.

"Fred! The window! Get out!" barked Batman. The man in the hospital gown scrambled for the shattered window. Mordecai leaped at him with a terrifyingly fluid grace, and at the same moment Batman grabbed him around the neck, holding on with a fierce, silent tenacity. Mordecai tore at him, but Bruce held on, hindering him. Standing between the vampire and the civilian, Clark tried a burst of cold breath that froze Mordecai's taloned hand into a block of ice. Batman let go and somersaulted away--

Or started to, but Mordecai clenched his fist, shattered the ice, and seized Bruce by the throat, shaking him like a kitten. With a brutally swift motion, he slammed Bruce into a wall and let him slide to the floor. Then he turned to Superman and Josiah. "Luthor," he said sharply, and the man sat up sharply as if pulled by strings. "I require your assistance."

His eyes blank, Luthor pulled the Kryptonite blade from his belt.

There was a dull roaring in Clark's ears. As he dodged a clumsy swing from Luthor and grabbed Mordecai, he realized as if from far away that it was his own voice, howling. Mordecai leaned forward and fastened teeth on his throat. He missed the key vein, but cold radiated from the bite mark, sapping Clark's strength. Another burst of light and Latin from behind him, and Mordecai wailed, the fangs in Clark's neck vibrating agonizingly with the sound, but didn't let go. Instead, Clark felt him gesture sharply, and there was a cry of pain from Josiah, followed by a _thump_ of a body hitting the floor. Clark's vision was going gray around the edges, his heart pounding, but he held on. Mordecai growled and bit harder--

\--And gasped, a small and surprised sound. He pulled his head back, releasing Superman, and looked down. Sick and dizzy, Superman followed his gaze...to where Lex Luthor stood, holding Mordecai's own stake and hammer. The stake was deep in Mordecai's chest, where the heart would have been.

Luthor made a disgusted noise and swung the hammer again, driving the stake further home. "Filthy," he panted, "Filthy, repulsive creature, manipulating me, _using me_..."

Mordecai shrieked as ichor poured from his eyes and mouth. He grabbed for Luthor, but Superman held him immobile. Luthor stepped back, staring with grim, nauseated satisfaction at the writhing, dying vampire. "Get out of my _head_ ," Luthor spat as Mordecai convulsed and blackened, still trying to lock eyes with him, trying to touch him. With a last inhuman howl, the charred body in Superman's grip went limp.

As if a cord had been cut, Luthor's eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to the floor, unconscious.

Superman had no eyes for him or the unconscious Josiah, no eyes for anything but the still shape in black lying on the floor. He rolled Bruce over gently and kissed his cowled forehead. "Batman. I'm here, love." No response. Clark rolled up the sleeve of his tunic and looked wildly around the room. Bruce needed to drink. He needed blood, and heat vision would just cauterize any wound. There had to be--yes. With a frantic leap, he grabbed the little crystal blade from beside the unconscious Luthor. Green light seared his skin, but Clark paid it no heed. His hands shaking with urgency and tension, he brought the edge across his own forearm in a wild gash.

Blood rushed from the wound, winding down his arm and through his fingers. Carefully, he brought the crimson-coated fingers to Bruce's mouth. A trickle went between Bruce's half-parted lips.

For a horrible moment there was still no response, and Clark felt the beginnings of a wail building in his chest. But then Bruce's throat moved, and he sighed and swallowed. "There you go," Clark whispered. "I'm here, it's me, you can drink." He slipped the tips of his fingers into Bruce's mouth and Bruce lapped at them, weakly at first, but then with increasing energy, until he was curling his tongue around Clark's fingers and sucking at them greedily. His long, strong teeth grazed Clark's fingers, his tongue exploring, and Clark felt a frisson of desire go through him despite their dire circumstances.

They were both panting slightly when Bruce moved away, his movements careful and slow but strong once more. Clark helped Bruce to his feet. "Hold on," Bruce muttered, moving over to Mordecai's remains, a charred pile of ash and fragments of clothing. Bruce bent and picked up a vial, tossed it to Clark. "Drink that," he said. Shrugging, Clark unstoppered the vial. It was water, clean and fresh. He drank it in a quick gulp and handed it back to Batman, who refilled it with something from his belt and put it back in the ashes. He went to Luthor and pulled the scabbard off his belt, locking Luthor's hands in restraints almost absent-mindedly. He then found the Kryptonite blade and sheathed it with a savage motion, hooking the scabbard to his belt.

Superman was checking Josiah's pulse when he felt cloth being wrapped around his bleeding arm. "I'm sorry," murmured Bruce. He leaned forward and touched his lips briefly to the scarlet-stained cloth.

"I'm sorry I took so long."

Josiah's eyelashes fluttered and he muttered something incoherent, then opened his eyes, staring up at Superman and Batman.

"Luthor destroyed Mordecai," said Superman. "You helped save our lives. Thank you."

Josiah sat up gingerly. "You stopped me from interfering. When Mordecai offered Luthor to him."

"I needed you to see," Superman said. "I needed you to understand that Batman truly is not what you think he is."

"He thinks I'm a vampire?" Batman's voice was edged with ironic laughter.

Josiah frowned up at him. "The augury said--"

"--The augury Mordecai was manipulating?" Superman put in.

Josiah made an annoyed sound in his throat. "The augury is not something that can be manipulated. But...there _are no good vampires_. It's an impossibility. No vampire has ever voluntarily died of thirst. No vampire would spare an enemy at the cost of their own life. Never in the history of vampires has such a thing been recorded."

"So the obvious conclusion is...?" Superman said patiently.

"I may have...misjudged you," Josiah said to Batman. Batman bowed slightly, a slight twist to his lips that only Clark would read as self-mocking.

Luthor groaned and opened his eyes. He sat up and glared at Superman and Batman. "You have no right," he growled, waving his restrained hands. "Breaking in here and--"

"--Rescuing the man you'd kidnapped?"

Luthor rolled his eyes at Superman. "I don't see any kidnap victims around here, do you? Even if you can find the poor unfortunate soul--" He paused and smiled. "Well, the _presumed_ unfortunate soul. Really, my recollection of the last week or so--it's all a blur. Being mind-controlled by that monster has left me with huge gaps in my memories. How terrible." His gaze went to Batman and turned thoughtful. "I do have some strange, yet very vivid memories of you being burned by holy water," he said.

Batman went to Mordecai's remains and poked gingerly around in them until he found the vial he had put there. He unstoppered it and sniffed, then held it under Luthor's nose. Luthor smelled it and grimaced.

"An alkali, probably capsaicin," Batman said. "Highly concentrated to soak through clothing and leave chemical burns, and a little safer for a vampire to carry around than holy water, don't you think? I killed his spawn and he wanted me to suffer before he consumed me. I assume he was saving you for dessert."

Luthor looked at Josiah, a question in his eyes. Josiah took his crucifix in his hands and approached Batman. Batman stood steady. Josiah touched the crucifix lightly to Batman's lips. Batman didn't flinch or cry out. He stood still and calm. His eyes were locked on Superman's.

Josiah stepped back. "No evil soul could endure the touch of the Holy Rood," he said.

Luthor snorted. "'Evil' is a meaningless term. I'm sure there's some entirely scientific reason why a vampire couldn't bear the touch of two rods crossed at certain angles. It must have something to do with mathematics and psychology. Geometry. I'm certain I could get an answer, unlock the physics of it." He shook his head, annoyed. "If I hadn't been tricked into destroying a potential test subject. Where am I supposed to find another vampire now?" He crooked an eyebrow at Josiah. "If you have a spare, I'll teach you what makes vampires tick."

Josiah looked at Batman, then at Superman. "It does seem to be a field that...merits study," he said. "Perhaps I'll mention to the Council--once I'm done explaining how one of their Elders came to be a pile of ash."

Batman brushed toward the broken window, keeping his face casually turned away from Luthor. "Call the police, Superman. Let them clear up the mess and let's go."

They left Luthor there, still explaining how vampirism could probably be explained by a combination of obsessive-compulsive disorder and severe garlic allergy.

**: : :**

Superman touched Batman's lips with gentle fingers. Blisters were already starting to rise on them, painful bloody welts. "It had to be done," Bruce murmured, looking at Clark's expression. He leaned against Clark for a moment, simply relishing the contact. "I almost didn't make it," he said against Clark's shoulder. "When I remembered what Lex had done to you, how much he's made you suffer..." He sighed. "You'd stop me, right? You'd put an end to me."

"It won't happen," Clark said.

"No vampire would voluntarily die of thirst," Bruce said. He touched his burned lips.

Clark kissed the corner of his mouth, very lightly. "You are one of a kind, Bruce."

Bruce snorted. "Most people don't mean that as a compliment about me."

"Most people don't know what they're missing."

Bruce moved back and met his eyes, holding the gaze for a long moment. "True," he said, nodding slightly. "How unfortunate for them."

Superman wrapped an arm around Batman, supporting him. "Let's get you home," he murmured. "You can rest and drink and regain your strength."

"Actually," Bruce said, "Do you know what I'd like?"

"You are, as always, a man of mystery."

Bruce felt a smile touch his voice. "I would like to go home and spend the evening with my family. Watch Dick and Tim enjoying Alfred's cooking. Maybe work on the Batmobile a little bit in the cave while the boys spar and Alfred appears and disappears, tidying up after us. Be surrounded by the people I care about and who care about me. And fall asleep in the arms of someone who loves me."

Clark's smile, Bruce thought, might well be all the sunshine he would ever need. "I think that can be arranged."


End file.
